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HOPE FARM NOTES 



BY 



HERBERT W. COLLINGWOOD 



REPRINTED FROM 

THE RURAL NEW YORKER 




NEW YORK 

HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY 

1921 






COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY 
HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC. 



THE QUINN a BODEN COMPANY 
RAHWAY. N. J. 



APR 30 ,'921 
g)CI.A614260 



To 
L. D. C. and A. F. C. 

WHO REPRESENT 

The Hen with one Chicken " 

AND 

The Chicken. 



Most of these notes were originally printed in the 
Rural New-Yorker from week to week and covering 
a period of ahout 20 years. Many readers of that maga- 
zine have expressed the desire to have a collection of 
them in permanent form. It has been no easy task 
to make a selection, and I wish to acknowledge here 
the great help which I have received from my daughter, 
Ava F. Collingwood, in arranging this matter. It has 
been thought best to arrange the notes in chronological 
order. " A Hope Farm Sermon/' and " Grandmother " 
were originally printed in 1902. The others follow 
in the order of their original publication. The reader 
must understand that the children alluded to represent 
two distinct broods, — the second brood appearing just 
after the sketch entitled " Transplanting the Young 
Idea." From the very first the object of these notes has 
been to picture simply and truthfully the brighter, 
cheerful side of Farm Life. 



CONTENTS 

P-1GB 

The Sunny Side of the Barn .... 1 

A Hope Farm Sermon 21 

Grandmother 26 

Laughter and Religion 33 

A Day in Florida 38 

The Baseball Game 45 

Transplanting the Young Idea . . . 51 

The Sleepless Man 58 

Lincoln's Birthday 63 

Uncle Ed's Philosophy 69 

A God-forsaken Place 75 

Louise 82 

Christmas Every Day ... . . . 88 

" The Finest Lesson " 94 

"Columbus Day" 107 

The Commencement 114 

"Organization" 122 

The Face of Liberty 130 

Captain Randall's Hour 138 

" Snow Bound " 147 

"Class" 155 

" I'll Tell God " 163 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A Day's Work 4 171 

Professor Gander's Academy . . . . 181 

Colonel O'Brien and Sergeant Hill . . 189 
How the Other Half Lives . . . .198 

The Indians Won . . . . . . 206 

Ike Sawyer's Hotel . . . . . .214 

Old-time Politics 224 



HOPE FARM NOTES 

THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE BAEN 

As a boy on a little Yankee farm I had a " stent " set 
out for me every day. During the Winter it was saw- 
ing and splitting wood. Our barn stood so that some- 
how on a Winter's day one side of it faced the road, 
and it always seemed to be warm and sunny. The other 
was turned so it was always cold and frosty, with little 
if any sun. The hens, the cow and the sheep always 
made for the sunny side of the barn, which represented 
the comfortable and the bright side of life. The old 
gentleman who brought me up always put the wood- 
pile on the frosty side of the barn. He argued that if 
the boy worked too much on the sunny side, he would 
stop to look at the passers-by, feel something of the joy 
of living, and stop his work to absorb a little of it. We 
were brought up to believe that labor was a curse, put 
upon us for our sins, a serious matter, a discipline and 
never a joy. When the boy worked on the frosty side, 
he must move fast in order to keep warm. He would not 
stop to loaf in the sun, he could not throw stones or 
practise baseball so long as he had to keep his mittens 
on to keep his fingers warm. Thus the argument was 
that the boy would accomplish more on the frosty side, 
and realize that labor represented the primal curse which 



2 HOPE FARM NOTES 

somehow seemed to rest particularly hard upon the 
farmer. And so as a child I did my work and passed 
much of my life on the frosty side of the barn, silent 
and thoughtful, while the hens cackled and sang on the 
sunny side. It seemed strange to me that people could 
not see that the thing which made the hens lay would 
surely make the boy work. 

There will always be a dispute as to whether a boy 
or a man does his best work under the spur of neces- 
sity, or out of a full bag of the oats of life. And 
they do it with greater or less cruelty as more or less 
of their life has been spent on the frosty side. I never 
yet saw a self-made man who did anything like a perfect 
job on himself. They usually spoil their own sons by 
giving them too easy a time, while work is a necessity 
in building character. Work without play of some sort 
is labor without soul, and that is one of the most cruel 
and dangerous things in the world. I have noticed that 
most men who pass their childhood on the frosty side 
of the barn have what I call a squint-eyed view of 
youth. They spend a large part of their time telling 
how they had to work as a boy, and how much inferior 
their own sons are since they do not have chores to 
do. That man's boys will pay no attention except when 
his eye is upon them, and rightly so, I think. The 
man looks across the table at mother, with a shake of 
his head, for is not the Smith family responsible for 
the fact that these boys do not equal their wonderful 
sire ? I have learned better than to expect much sym- 
pathy from my boys for what happened 50 years ago. 

The old gentleman would come now and then and 



THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE BARN 3 

look around the corner of the barn to see if I was 
at work. The frosty side of the barn in youth has one 
advantage. It forces the boy to think and reason out 
the justice of life. Uncle Daniel had not read enough 
of history to know that Guizot, the great French his- 
torian, says that the only thing which those who repre- 
sent tyranny, injustice or evil are afraid of is the human 
mind. What he means is that whenever you can get 
the plain, common people to think clearly and with 
their own brains, they will sooner or later wipe off the 
slate of history and write freedom in big letters. On 
the sunny side I think I should have talked and so 
rid myself of my thought before it could print itself 
upon my little brain, but there on the frosty side of 
the barn I know that I said little, but reasoned it 
out with the clear wisdom of childhood. If Uncle 
Daniel had been a student of Shakespeare, he would 
have gone straight to that famous passage in Julius 
Caesar which probably expresses the thought of 90 per 
cent of the humans capable of thinking, who have ever 
lived to maturity: 

" Let me have men about me that are fat, 
Sleek-headed men and such as sleep o' nights; 
Yond' Cassius has a lean and hungry look ; 
He thinks too much; such men are dangerous." 

I was thinking out my problem, and I want to tell 
you younger men that the questions which started at the 
teeth of my saw on the frosty side of that old barn have 
cut their way through the years, and chased and haunted 
me all through life. The injustice of labor and social 



4 HOPE FARM NOTES 

conditions — that is the foundation of the trouble in the 
world. Upon it all helpful education should be based. 
Youth's ideals will always chase you like that, if you 
give them half a chance, and you never can have better 
mental companions. I was trying to reason out one of 
two resolutions. Off in that dim future of manhood 
when I should grow up, my time would come, and I 
might have power over some other boy, or maybe a 
man. I could put him on the frosty or on the 
sunny side of the barn, as I saw fit. What would I 
do to him to pay for my session on the frosty side? 
Somehow I think it is natural for human beings to seek 
reparation and promise themselves to take their mis- 
fortunes out of someone else when their power comes. 
I think I should have grown up with something of 
that determination in mind had it not been for the poet 
Longfellow. 

Now you will smile, you successful farmers, you 
dry old analyzers and solemn teachers and you budding 
young hopes. What has poetry to do with farming 
or agricultural education? What did the poet Long- 
fellow ever do for farming? Did he ever have a hen 
in an egg-laying contest that laid 300 eggs in a year? 
Did he ever raise a prize pumpkin, or a prize crop of 
potatoes ? Did he even originate the Longfellow variety 
of flint corn ? Do not men need solid pith rather than 
flabby poetry in their thought ? It is true that Long- 
fellow would have starved to death on a good farm. 
Yet his poetry and the thought that went with it were 
one of the things that made New England dominate this 
country in thought. My childhood was passed at a 



THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE BARN 5 

time when we had no science to study. Bacteria were 
swimming all about us in the air, the food and the 
water. I had, no doubt, swallowed millions of them at 
every mouthful, and we grew fat on them. We had 
no books on science or bulletins, but every farmhouse 
had its copy of Bryant, Whittier, Longfellow, Emerson 
and Holmes. The best duck-raiser in our town was a 
man who could recite Bryant's poem, " To a Water 
Fowl," with his eyes shut. I think I could safely chal- 
lenge many famous poultrymen to recite even one verse 
of that poem, yet who would say that he would not be 
a better ponltryman and a better man if he could carry 
in his heart a few verses of that poem ? 

" There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast." 

" He who from zone to zone, 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
In the long way which I must tread alone, 
Will lead my steps aright." 

I had recited Longfellow's " Resignation " in school. 
I gave it about as a parrot would, but on the frosty side 
of the old barn one verse shoved itself into my little 
brain : 

" Let us be patient ; 
These severe afflictions 
Not from the ground arise; 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
Assume this dark disguise. 

Just think of that, a " celestial benediction " — it 
was a great thing for a boy to think about. I looked 



6 HOPE FARM NOTES 

both words up in the dictionary and got, perhaps, half 
of their meaning. In all our town there seemed to be 
no one except our old minister to come around on the 
frosty side of the barn with comfort or promise, but 
this celestial benediction which the poet told about got 
right to you. It might even live under that awful 
pile of wood which I was to saw, and it would be worth 
the job of sawing it if I could find such a thing under 
the pile. I heard people speak of a " nigger in the 
woodpile " in terms of reproach, but a celestial benedic- 
tion down under the wood was certainly entitled to all 
respect. I did not fully understand it, or what it meant, 
but it got into me and stayed there, where the multipli- 
cation table or the rule of square root never would 
remain. My belief is that if I had committed to mem- 
ory in place of that poem some excellent classroom lec- 
ture at college I should have become a little anarchist, 
and gone through life pushing such people as I could 
reach toward the frosty side of the barn. As it was, 
that poem, repeated over and over, made me vow as 
a child that if I ever could influence or direct the lives 
of farmers I would do my best to see that they lived and 
did their work on the sunny side of the barn. 

In my day children were brought up on " the Scrip- 
tures and a stick," both well applied, and yet all these 
"lectures and lickings" never stuck in my life as did 
the noble poetry we read in school, and the few pictures 
which hung on the walls of the home. There is a curi- 
ous thing about some of these pictures. I am told of a 
case where two boys in the Tennessee mountains volun- 
teered for the navy. Their mountain home was as far 



THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE BARN 7 

removed from the ocean as it well could be. They had 
never seen even a large pond. For three generations 
not one of their ancestors had ever seen the salt water. 
Yet these boys would not listen to any call for the army, 
but they demanded a place in the navy. The story 
came to an officer in a nearby camp, and he became in- 
terested and visited that home. Both father and mother 
were puzzled over the action of their boys, and they 
could not understand why Henry and William had de- 
manded the ocean. As the officer turned away he no- 
ticed hanging on the wall in the living-room of that 
house the crude picture of a ship under full sail and on 
an impossible blue ocean. It had come into that family 
years before, wrapped around a package of goods, and 
mother had hung it on the wall. From their youth those 
boys had grown up with that picture before them, and 
it had decided their lives. It was stronger than the 
influence of father and mother — they could not over- 
come it. I speak of that in order that you men and 
women with children of your own may understand how 
the dreams, the poetry, the visions of youth may prove 
stronger influences than any of the science ; the wis- 
dom, or the fine examples you may put before your 
little ones. 

On the wall of our old living-room at home was a 
chromo entitled " Joseph and His Brethren." It was 
an awful work of art. It showed a group of men putting 
a boy down into a hole in the ground. It would have 
made the head of an art department weep in misery, 
and yet it affected me deeply. I used to stand and 
study it, with the result that at least one chapter of the 



8 HOPE FARM NOTES 

Bible gave me great joy, and that was the story of 
Joseph and his brothers. That story helped to keep me 
sweet and hopeful on the frosty side of the barn, for 
I reasoned it all out as I worked. Here, I thought, was 
a farm boy. He did rather more than his share of liv- 
ing on the frosty side, and see what he came to. I 
used to picture Joseph in mind as he came walking 
over the desert carrying his father's instructions about 
the sheep and the management of the farm. His 
brothers saw him coming, and they said among them- 
selves, " Behold, this dreamer cometh." You see, even 
in those days, practical men could not understand the 
value of a dreamer, a poet or a thinker as the first aid to 
practical agriculture. I have no doubt that Joseph the 
dreamer often forgot to water the sheep. I have no 
doubt but that they got away from him when he was 
herding them, and so his brothers quickly got rid of 
him, and they sent him off to the place where they 
thought dreams never came true. And that is where 
they made their mistake, and the same mistake is often 
made in these days by other practical farmers, for 
dreams that are based on faith and pure ambition al- 
ways come true. If Joseph had not been a dreamer, 
carrying the ideals of his childhood into Egypt, we can 
readily understand which side of the barn his brothers 
would have gone to when they appeared before him 
later. But Joseph was a man who remembered the 
dreams and the hopes of his childhood kindly ; he gave 
those brothers the sunniest side of the barn, and by doing 
so he made himself one of the great men in history. 
You may surely take it from me that at some time in 



THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE BARN 9 

jour life, if you prove worth the salt you have eaten, 
your State or your country will call you up before the 
judgment seat, and will say to you: 

" I demand your life. In your youth you had ideals 
of manhood and of service. I have trained you and 
given you knowledge. I now demand your life as proof 
that your old ideals were true." 

That comes to all men not only on the battlefield, but 
in all the humble walks of life — the farm, the factory, 
the shop, wherever men are put at labor, and it means a 
life given to service, the use of power and knowledge, 
in order that men less fortunate may live on the sunny 
side of the barn. 

We had something of an illustration of this when 
America entered the great war. Many of us felt hon- 
estly that our boys were not quite up to the stand- 
ard. We thought they were a little lazy, inefficient or 
spoiled, because they did not think as we did about 
labor and the necessity for work. We did not realize 
what the trouble was, and so we generally charged it to 
the influence of mother's side of the family. We could 
not understand that by education, training and example, 
we had simply taught those boys only the material and 
selfish side of life. They demanded unconsciously more 
of its poetry and romance and thus the war swept 
them away in a blaze of glory. We suddenly woke up 
to find that under the inspiration of an unselfish desire, 
our lazy and careless boys had become the finest soldiers 
this world has ever seen. They were made so through 
the power of poetry and imagination, for " making the 
world safe for democracy " is only another name for 



10 HOPE FARM NOTES 

making the great life offering in order that helpless 
men and women may know the comfort and glory of 
living on the " sunny side of the barn." 

I think I have lived long enough and under condi- 
tions which fit me to know human nature better than 
most men know books. Our present improved man 
came from a savage. Originally man was a confirmed 
dweller on the frosty side of the barn. As human 
life has developed, the tendency has been for this 
man to run for a warm place on the sunny side. In 
order to get there, his natural tendency has been to 
crowd some weaker brother back into the frost. We may 
not like to admit it, but as we have crowded poetry 
and imagination and love out of agricultural educa- 
tion, we have lost track of the thought that there is one 
great duty we owe to society for the great educational 
machine she has given us. That one great life duty 
is to try to carry some more unfortunate brother out of 
the frost into the comfort of the sunny side of the barn. 
We are too much in the habit of trying to leave this 
practical betterment to the Legislature or to the Federal 
Government, when it never can be done unless we do it 
ourselves, as a part of human sacrifice. You must re- 
member that in spite of all our scientific work, the world 
is still largely fed and clothed by the plain farmers, 
whose stock in trade is largely human nature and in- 
stinct. The shadow which undoubtedly lies over farm- 
ing today is due to the fact that too many of these 
men and women feel that they are booked hopelessly to 
spend their lives on the frosty side of the barn. 

It is in large part a mental trouble, a feeling of deep 



THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE BARN 11 

resentment, such as in a very much smaller way came 
to me as a little boy, for you will see how real and true 
are the ideals of childhood. The great aim of all edu- 
cation should be to find some way of putting poetry 
and imagination into the hearts of the men and women 
who are now on the frosty side of the barn. There is 
more in this than any mere increase of food production, 
or increase of land values. A great industrial revolu- 
tion is facing this nation. Such things have come before 
again and again. They were always threatening, and 
every time they appeared strong men and women feared 
for the future of their country. Yet in times past these 
dark storms have always broken themselves against ' a 
solid wall of contented and prosperous freeholders. 
They always disappear and turn into a gentle, reviving 
rain when they strike the sunny side of the barn. That 
is where the errors and mistakes of society are taken 
apart and remade, better than ever before, by skilled 
and happy workmen. It is on the frosty side of the 
barn, in the unhappy shadows, where men tear down 
and destroy without attempting to rebuild, for there can 
be no human progress except that which is finally built 
upon contentment and faith. Men and women must be 
brought to the sunny side of the barn if this nation is to 
remain the land of opportunity, and such men and 
women as we have here must do the work. 

If you ask me how this is to be done, I can only go 
back to childhood once more for an illustration. I know 
all the characters of the following little drama. We 
will call the children John, Mary and Bert. John and 
Mary were relatives of the old gentleman who owned 



12 HOPE FARM NOTES 

the farm, and they came for a long visit. Bert was 
the farm boy, put out to work on that farm for his 
board and clothes, one of the thousands of war orphans 
who represented a great legacy which the Civil War 
had left to this country. John and Mary were bright 
and petted and pampered. You know how such smart 
city children can usually outshine and outbluff a farm 
boy. The woman of the house, a thrifty New England 
soul, decided that this was her chance to get the wood- 
shed filled with dry wood, and so she put the three chil- 
dren at it. Before Bert knew what was going on, those 
city children had it all " organized." Bert was to 
work on the frosty side of the barn where the woodpile 
was, and he was to saw and split all the wood. John 
played until Bert had split an armful, then John car- 
ried it about two rods to the shed, where Mary took it 
out of his arms and piled it inside. I have lived some 
years since that time, and I have seen many enterprises 
come and go, and if that arrangement is not typical of 
thousands of cases which show the relation between the 
farmer and middleman and handler, I have simply lived 
and observed in vain, and Bert represented the 
farmer. 

And the distribution of the rewards received in ex- 
change for that combination was still more typical. 
Now and then the woman would think the woodshed was 
not filling very fast, so that some form of bribery to 
labor was necessary. She would then come out with 
half a pie, or a few cookies, to stimulate the work. 
Strange to say, the distribution of this prize was always 
given to the girl. She was doing that absolutely useless 



THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE BARN 13 

work of piling the wood, and jet the pie and the cookies 
were handed to her for distribution. Eor a great many 
centuries, it must be said that the farmer never had 
much of a chance with the town man when it came to 
receiving favors from the ladies, and in the distribution 
of that pie John and Mary usually ate about seven- 
eighths of it, and handed the balance to Bert, for even 
then those city children had formed the idea that a 
silent, unresisting farm boy was made to be the beast 
of burden, fit for the frosty side of the barn. 

And just as happens in other and larger forms of 
business, there were, in that toy performance of a great 
drama, forms of legislative bribery for middlemen and 
farmers. Those children were told that if they would 
hurry and get the woodshed filled up, they would receive 
pleasure and a present. John and Mary, as middlemen, 
might go to the circus, while the boy on the saw would 
receive a fine present. This would be a book which 
told how a splendid little boy sawed 15 cords of wood 
in two weeks, and then asked his mother if he couldn't 
please go down the road and saw five cords more for a 
poor widow woman during his play time. Ever since 
the world began, that seems to have been the idea of 
agricultural legislation. The real direct pleasure and 
profit have gone to John and Mary, while to Bert has 
gone the promise of an education which will teach him 
how to work a little harder. Looking back over the 
world's history, the most astonishing thing to me is that 
society has failed to see that the best investment of 
public money and power is that made closest up to the 
ground, the great mother of us all. Other interests have 



14? HOPE FARM NOTES 

received it, largely because they have been able to or- 
ganize and make a stronger appeal to the imagination. 
Of course in every drama of human life there has to 
be a crisis where the actors come to blows, and it hap- 
pened so in this case. There came one day particularly 
cold, and with a special run of hard and knotty wood 
to be sawed. That gave John and Mary more time for 
play, and put an extra job on Bert. I cannot tell just 
how the battle started; it may have been caused by 
Mary, for a thousand times in the history of the world 
the relations between two boys and a girl have upset 
all calculations and changed the course of history. Or 
it may be that the spirit of injustice boiled up in 
the heart of that boy on the saw, and swept away his 
peaceful disposition. At any rate, when John found 
fault because he did not work faster, Bert dropped his 
saw and tackled the tormentor. If I am to tell the 
truth, I am forced to admit that there was no science 
at all about the battle which that boy put up for the 
rights of farm labor. He should, I suppose, have imi- 
tated some of the old heroes described by Homer and 
Virgil, but as the rage of battle came over him, the most 
effective fighter he could think of was the old ram, and 
I regret to say that he lowered his head, and, without 
regard for science, butted John in the stomach and 
knocked him down. Then he sat on his enemy, took 
hold of his hair with both hands, and proceeded to 
pound his head on the frosty ground, while Mary danced 
about, not caring to interfere, but evidently waiting to 
bestow her favors upon the victor. And just as John 
was getting ready to call " enough " the kitchen door 



THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE BARN 15 

opened and out came the woman of the house with the 
old minister. i 

She certainly looked like a very stern picture of jus- 
tice as she peered over her spectacles at the boys on the 
ground, and the three children were arraigned before 
her. " What shall I do with these children % I shall 
never get this job done. I have spent nearly five pies on 
these children already, and see how little they have- 
piled, and here they are fighting over it. I think the 
best thing I can do is to whip that lazy boy at the saw." 

I wish you could have seen the face of the old minister 
as he rolled up his wrinkles and prepared to answer. 
It was worth a good deal to see how he looked out of the 
corner of his eye at the boy on the saw. 

" My good friend," said he, " this is not a case for 
prayer or for punishment, or for investigation, or for 
education. It is a case for an adjustment of labor and 
pie. That boy on the saw has been doing practically all 
of the work, and getting almost nothing of the reward. 
He is discouraged, and I don't blame him. You can- 
not crowd more work out of him with a stick. Move him 
out into the sun, give him the pie, and let him eat his 
share and distribute the rest. Make the other boy split 
and carry and pile all that wood, and put that girl at 
washing windows. The closer you put the pie up to 
the sawbuck, the more wood you will have cut!' 

Now tell me, you scientists and you wise men, if that 
does not tell the whole story. It is the pie of life, or the 
fair distribution of that pie, which leads men and 
women to the sunny side of the barn. What we need 
most of all in this country is some power like that of 



16 HOPE FARM NOTES 

the old minister, who can drive that thought home to 
human society, and it will not be driven home until our 
leaders and our teachers have in their hearts more of 
the poetry and the imagination which lead men and 
women to attempt the impossible and work it out. You 
will not agree with me when I say that in a majority of 
the farm homes today there is greater need of the gentle, 
humanizing influence of poetry and vision than of the 
harder and sterner influence of science and sharp busi- 
ness practice. As the years go on you will come to see 
that I am right. 

I know that is one of the hardest things on earth for 
some of us to understand, for modern education has led 
us away from the thought. In our grasp for knowledge 
we have tried to substitute science entirely for senti- 
ment, forgetting that the really essential things of life 
cannot stand close analysis, because they are held to- 
gether by faith. In reaching out after power we have 
tried, too hard to imitate the shrewd scheming of the 
politician and the big interests. We have failed thus 
far because we have neglected too many of our natural 
weapons. Over 200 years ago Andrew Fletcher wrote: 

" I knew a very wise man who believed that if a man 
were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not care 
who should make the laws of a nation." 

Andrew Fletcher's wise man knew what he was talk- 
ing about. Very likely some of you older people can 
remember the famous Hutchinson family in the days 
before the Civil War. I have seen the New Hampshire 
farmhouse where they were raised. It was just a group 
of plain farmers who traveled about the country singing 



THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE BARN 17 

simple little songs about freedom. That plain farm 
family did more to make the American people see the 
sin of slavery than all the statesmen New England 
could muster or all the laws she could make. There 
was little science and less art about their singing, but 
it was in the language of the common people and they 
understood it. 

" The ox bit his master ; 
How came that to pass? 
The ox heard his master say 
< All flesh is grass!'" 

There came a crisis in the Civil War when soldier 
and statesman stood still wondering what to do next, 
for they were powerless without the spirit of the people. 
Then William Cullen Bryant wrote the great song in 
which he poured out the burning thought of the people : 

"We're coming, Father Abraham, 

Three hundred thousand more, 
From Mississippi's winding stream 

And from New England's shore. 
We leave our plows and workshops, 

Our wives and children dear, 
With hearts too full for utterance, 

But with a silent tear. 

" We're coming, we're coming, the Union to restore ; 
We're coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thou- 
sand more ! " 

Had it not been for such songs and the spirit they 
aroused the Civil War never could have been won. We 
now understand that during the great war the French 



18 HOPE FARM NOTES 

army was at the point of mutiny, and was saved not 
by stern discipline but by a renewal of its spiritual 
power. I think it will be as hard as for a man to try 
and lift himself by his boot straps to try to put farming 
into its proper place through science and material pros- 
perity alone. We need poets to give us songs and play- 
wrights to put our story in such pictures that the world 
must listen to it and understand. The one great thing 
which impels us to work on and fight is the hope that 
the property which we may leave behind us will be safe 
and put to reasonable use. Some of us may leave cash 
and lands ; others can give the world only a family of 
children, but at heart our struggle is to see that this 
heritage may be made safe. 

For most of us make a great mistake in locating 
a storage place for the heritage which we hope to leave 
to the future. We work and we toil; we struggle to 
improve conditions; we strive to capitalize our worry 
and our work into money and into land in order that 
our children may carry on our work. Have you ever 
stopped to think who holds the future of all this ? Many 
of you no doubt will say that the future of this great 
nation lies in the banks and vaults of the cities where 
money is piled up mountains high. We have all acted 
upon that principle too long, digging wealth from the 
soil and then sending it into the town for investment, 
until we have come to think that our future lies there. 
We are wrong ; it is a mistake. The future of this land, 
and all it means to us, lies in the hands of little chil- 
dren, who are playing on the city streets or in the open 
fields of the country, and it is not so much in their 



THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE BARN 19 

hands as in the pictures which are being printed on their 
little minds and souls. And this future will be safer 
with poetry and imagination than with the multiplica- 
tion table alone. 

I know about this from my own start in life. I was 
expected to be satisfied with work until I was 21, and 
then have a suit of clothes and a yoke of oxen. One 
trouble with the farmers of New England was that 
they thought this a sufficient outfit for their boys. I 
think I might have fallen in with that plan and con- 
tented my life with it had it not been for a crude picture 
which hung in the shop where we pegged shoes. It was 
a poor color scheme, a perfect daub of art, in which 
some amateur artist had tried to express a thought 
which was too large for his soul. A bare oak tree, with 
most of its branches gone, was framed against the Win- 
ter sky. It was evening ; a few stars had appeared, and 
the sky was full of color. The artist had tried to ar- 
range the stars and the sky colors so that they repre- 
sented a crude American flag, with the oak tree serving 
as the staff. His great unexpressed thought was that 
at the close of the Civil War God had painted His 
promise of freedom on the sky in the coloring of that 
flag. As a child, that crude picture became a part of 
my life. I have never been able to forget the glory of 
it, as I have forgotten the meanness, the poverty, the 
narrow blindness of our daily lives, so that all through 
the long and stormy years, wherever I have walked, I 
have seen that flag upon the sky, and I have waited 
hopefully for the coming of the sunrise of that day 
when, through the work of real education, when with the 



20 HOPE FARM NOTES 

help of such men and such women as are here today, 
every hopeless man, every lonely woman, every melan- 
choly child upon a sad and desolate hill farm, may feel 
the thrill of opportunity, and the joy and the glory of 
living upon the sunny side of the barn. 



A HOPE FAKM SERMON 

No use talking, the best part of a vacation is getting 
home. We were all sorry to leave Cape Cod. To tell 
you the truth duty seemed to be stuck full of thorns a 
foot long as we looked back at it from the easy bed of a 
loafer on his vacation. No wonder the poor little Bud 
cried when our good host kissed her good-bye. We 
looked at her with much the same expression as that on 
the face of the woman who missed an important train 
by half a minute and listened to the forcible remark 
of a man who was also left! We got over that, how- 
ever. The harness was put on our shoulders so gently 
that we hardly felt it, and here we are again with a soft 
pad of gentle and happy memories to put where the rub 
comes hardest. Everything was all O. K. at home. 
Grandmother was in good spirits, the Chunk reported 
good sales, and the weather had been fair for farm work. 
The boys had the corn all cleaned up and the weeds 
mostly cut. The strawberries have been transplanted; 
the alfalfa clipped off; the squashes have grown into a 
perfect tangle of vines, the sweet potatoes look well, 
and there is no blight in the late white ones ! The chil- 
dren found nine new little pigs and 30 new chickens 
waiting them. Yes ! Yes ! It was a happy home- 
coming. I climbed the hill on Sunday and looked off 
over the old familiar valley. There were the same 
glorious old hills with the shadows chasing along them, 

21 



22 HOPE FARM NOTES 

the little streams stealing down through their fringes 
of grass and bushes, the cultivated fields, and the homes 
of neighbors peeping out through the orchards ! Surely 
home is a goodly place after all. Other places are good 
to come away from, but home is the place to go to! 

Now, I know that many of my readers are in trouble. 
I am, and every mail brings news from people who are 
carrying crosses and facing hard duties with more or 
less bravery. There are women left alone on the farm, 
striving to drag a heavy heart through life. Men have 
seen wife and child pass away. Others have seen hopes 
and ambitions crushed out. This season has been hard 
for many. I will quote from a letter just at hand from 
central New York, where flood and storm have scarred 
the hillsides and ruined crops: 

" One neighbor hung himself ; one says he shall have 
an auction and go to the old ladies' home ; another had 
the blues until he cried." 

Now, in spite of all the talk we have of the Nation's 
great prosperity, I know that there are thousands of 
sad hearts in country homes, sad because they have seen 
the cherished things of life and the work of self-denying 
years swept out of their grasp by a power which they 
could neither master nor comprehend. The picture of 
a strong man dropping his head upon the table and cry- 
ing like a child is the saddest vision that can rise before 
our eyes. Farm life has its tragic side, and the sad- 
ness of it would crush us down at times if we would 
permit it to do so. No wonder men and women grow 
despondent when with each year comes a little more 
of the living blight which slowly destroys hope and 



A HOPE FARM SERMON 23 

faith in one's physical ability to master the secret of 
happiness. I do not blame men and women who give 
way to despondency under pressure of griefs which 
have staggered me. I only regret that they cannot 
realize that for most of the afflicted of middle years 
the only true help is a moral one. 

I feel like repeating that last sentence, though it 
may come like the application of a liniment I knew as 
a boy. The old man who brought me up invented a cer- 
tain " lotion." Whenever I cut or burned my flesh that 
lotion bottle was hauled out, a hen's feather inserted 
and a liberal allowance smeared over the wound. It 
was like rubbing liquid fire on the flesh, but it did pull 
the smart out and carry it far away. I used to imagine 
that the " lotion " gathered the pain all into a lump 
and pulled it out by the roots with one quick twitch. 
One of the most helpful books I have ever read is a little 
volume entitled " Deafness and Cheerfulness." I read 
it over and over, and I wish that every deaf man or 
friend of a deaf man could have it. I find in this little 
book the following message which I commend to all 
who feel their courage giving way: 

" The noblest dealing with misfortune is in manly 
silence to bear it ; the next to the meanest is in feeble- 
ness to weep over it; the wholly unpardonable is to 
ask others to weep also." 

With the first and third of these propositions I fully 
agree. It is not always a sign of weakness for a man 
to get off into solitude somewhere and find relief in 
tears. When the tear glands are completely dried up 
the man loses an element of character which all the 



24 HOPE FARM NOTES 

iron in his will cannot replace. But " manly silence " 
is the " noblest dealing with misfortune " — and also 
the hardest. It is human to cry out and complain at 
the pain of what we call injustice, but if the child is 
human should not the grown man be something more? 
What are years and the burning balm of experience 
given us for if not to enable us to rise up nearer to 
divine strength ? As I look about me it occurs that most 
of us who have reached middle life or beyond have 
grown unconsciously away from childhood and youthful 
strength. We somehow feel that people ought to re- 
gard us as others did 25 years ago. The fat man of 
45 is no longer the young sprout of 20, though he may 
think so. If I am not mistaken, one great trouble with 
many of us is the fact that we crave and beg for the 
things that go with youth when in reality we are grown- 
up men and women! It is our duty now to face life 
and its problems, not with the careless hope of youth, 
but with the sober and abiding faith that should come 
with mature years. Run over a child's ambitions and, 
after his short grief, his spirits rise again for the next 
opportunity. The man's hopes are shaken by repeated 
defeat, and hope of physical victory finds itself caged 
at every turn by former defeat. We may grieve or 
despond over this and play the child; or we may act 
the man, raise our hopes and ideals above the range 
of former defeat, and find comfort and courage in doing 
the things which shame infirmity and affliction. I 
know some of you will say that this complacent man 
may moralize — but give him a touch of trouble, and how 
he would whine ! I hope not ! Trouble has taken many 



A HOPE FARM SERMON 25 

a mouthful out of us but, if I thought any honest friend 
really meant that, it would be the greatest trouble of 
all. I repeat that the greatest comfort to the despondent 
must be a moral one, yet the riding of some harmless 
hobby helps one to walk with fortitude. Let a man say 
to himself that he will study and work to breed the 
finest pigs or raise the finest strawberries or master 
some science or public question, and he will find strength 
and comfort in his work! I'll promise not to attempt 
any more preaching for a good while if you will let me 
end this little sermon with a quotation from Whittier : 

" Soon or late to all our dwellings come the specters of the 

mind; 
Doubts and fears and dread forebodings, in the darkness 

undefined. 
Round us throng the grim projections of the heart and of 

the brain, 
And our pride of strength is weakness, and the cunning 

hand is vain. 
In the dark we cry like children; and no answer from on 

high 
Breaks the crystal spheres of silence, and no white wings 

downward fly. 
But the heavenly help we pray for, comes to faith and not 

to sight, 
And our prayers themselves drive backward all the spirits 
of the night." 



GRAM3M0THEK 

The last celebration of Thanksgiving was about the most 
startling that any of the Hope Farmers remember. I 
have passed this holiday under quite varied conditions. 
" Boy " on a New England farm and in a boarding- 
house, cattle herder on a Colorado ranch, sawyer in a 
lumber camp, teacher in a country school district, hired 
man and book agent on a Michigan farm, " elocutionist " 
in a dramatic company, " professor of modern lan- 
guages " (with a slim grip on English alone) in a young 
ladies' seminary, printer's devil in a Southern news- 
paper office, ditcher in a swamp, and other capacities 
too numerous to mention. A man may perhaps lay 
claim to a bit of helpful philosophy if he can find some 
fun in all such days and carry along in his mental pocket 
" much to be thankful for." He is sure to come to a 
time in life when these " treasures of memory " will be 
very useful. I would not refer to family matters that 
might well be marked " private " and locked away 
with the skeleton in the closet if I did not know that 
the plain, simple matters of family record are things 
that all the world have in common. 

A pirate or a man trying to hide himself might have 
seen virtues in the dull, misty fog that settled upon the 
city the night before Thanksgiving. Grandmother had 
been slowly failing through the day. The night brought 
her greater pain than ever. All through these long 

26 



GRANDMOTHER 27 

months we had been able to keep from her the real 
nature of her disease. I took it upon myself to keep the 
children happy. If we grown-ups found it hard to be 
thankful we would see that the little folks put out 
enough thanks for the whole family. I took them down 
to the market to pick out a turkey! We had a great 
time, and finally found a turkey fat enough. The 
market man gave each of the children a handful of 
nuts — and they now want Mother to give him all her 
trade. They went home fairly radiant with happiness. 
Was it not better for them to go to sleep with the 
pleasant side of the day in their hearts rather than the 
shadow which the rest of us could feel near us % 

The morning came dark and dismal. It didn't seem 
like Thanksgiving as the Bud and I went after the doc- 
tor. The clerks and professional people seemed to be 
taking a holiday, but the drivers, the diggers and heavy 
workmen were at their jobs as usual. The streets were 
filled with children dressed up in ridiculous costumes, 
wearing masks or with faces blackened. These urchins 
went about begging money from passers-by. Our little 
folks were rather shocked at this way of celebrating 
Thanksgiving. Where this ridiculous mummery came 
from or how it crept into a Thanksgiving celebration is 
more than I can say. It may be as close as a city child 
can come to thanking Nature for a bountiful harvest! 
Charlie and his family came in from the farm, and 
Jack came from his school. Grandmother made a 
desperate struggle and was finally able to sit up so 
that her children and grandchildren might be about her. 
As the children grew restless in the house I took them 



28 HOPE FARM NOTES 

out and we walked along the river. My mind was busy 
with other matters relating to other days, but the little 
folks, happily, saw only the great bright side of the 
future. Their past was too small to cast any shadow. 
We went as far as Grant's Tomb and passed through 
the room where the great general's remains are lying. 
As we passed in, the Graft and Scion saw the men take 
off their hats and they did the same. 

" Why do they make you take off your hat ? " asked 
the Graft, when we came out. 

I tried to explain to him that this was one of the 
things that people should not be made to do. They 
should do it because they wanted to show their respect 
or reverence. I doubt if I made him understand it, 
for when a boy is hungry and other boys are playing 
football in a nearby vacant lot even the gentlest ser- 
mon loses its point. Our dinner was such a success 
that we did not have chairs enough to go around. The 
children had to sit on boxes and baskets. A taste of 
everything from turkey down went in to Grandmother, 
but she could eat little. The plates came back again 
and again until the Hope Earm man was obliged to 
say: 

" Well, Mother, I shall have to turn this turkey over 
after all." 

He had not only to turn it over but scrape many of 
the bones clean. The farm folks finally went home 
and Jack too was obliged to go. Happily the little folks 
were tired out and they were asleep early. About two 
o'clock Mother woke me. She did not do it before, 
because it might have alarmed Grandmother, who did 



GRANDMOTHER 29 

not, I think, clearly understand her true condition. 
There was apparently no pain or struggle at the end. 
We noticed that her face lighted up with a strange, 
puzzled look, of surprise and wonder — and well it might 
when one is called upon to lay down the troubles and 
toil of such a life as hers in the dim, mysterious coun- 
try which one must die to enter. 

Perhaps the hardest part of it all was to tell the 
children about it. They must have known that some 
strange thing was happening. They woke up early and 
saw the undertaker passing through the room. Then 
Mother got them together and told them that poor 
Grandmother had suffered so long that God pitied her 
and had taken her to Him. The little folks sat with 
thoughtful faces for a while and then one of them said 
with wide-open eyes: 

" Is Grandmother dead then ? " 

And so the body of poor Grandmother passed away 
from us* while her spirit and memory passed deeper 
than ever into the lives of the Hope Farm folks. Life 
with her had ceased to be comfortable. It was merely 
a steady, hopeless struggle against pain and depression. 
Mother was able to go through these long months calmly 
and hopefully because she knows that her mother had 
every service that love could render. It is with that 
thought in mind that I feel like saying a solemn word 
to those whom I have never met, yet who seem to be as 
close as personal friends can be. Do not for an instant 
begrudge the money, the time or toil which you may 
spend upon those of your loved ones who need your help. 
That is a part of the cross which you must carry cheer- 



30 HOPE FARM NOTES 

fully or reject. Do not let those whom you serve see 
that it is a cross, but glorify it from day to day. It 
is not merely a part of hard, cold duty, but the vital 
force in the development of character. It may be that 
I am now talking to someone who is putting personal 
comfort above the self-denial which goes with the sacred 
trust which God has put into our lives. Where will the 
flag of " comfort " lead them when the discomforting 
days come ? A conscience is a troublesome thing at best, 
but one that has been gently and truly developed through 
self-sacrifice is a better companion than the barbed finger 
of trouble thrust into the very soul at last by the relent- 
less hand of fate ! 

A novelist could weave a startling romance out of the 
plain life record of this typical American woman. She 
was born in Massachusetts — coming from the best stock 
this country has ever produced. This is not the narrow- 
eyed, cent-shaving Yankee, but the children from the 
hillside farms who went to the valleys and at the little 
water-powers laid the foundations of New England's 
manufacturing. These sturdy people saw clearly into 
the future, and as they harnessed and trained the power 
of the valley streams they cultivated and restrained 
their own powers until the man as well as the machine 
became a tremendous force. Honorable misfortune be- 
fell this manufacturing family, but could not crush it. 
In those days the boys, under such circumstances, 
dropped all their own ambitions and took the first job 
that presented itself, without a murmur and with joy 
that they could do it. The girls did the same, though 
there were few openings for women then outside of 



GRANDMOTHER 31 

housework and the schoolroom. Grandmother had a 
taste for music, and became a music teacher. She 
finally secured a position as teacher in a little town in 
Mississippi, and in about the year that the Hope Farm 
man was born she went into what was then a strange 
country for the daughter of a Massachusetts Abolition- 
ist! What a journey that must have been, before the 
Civil War, for a young woman such as Grandmother 
was then. The South was in a blaze of excitement, yet 
this quiet, gentle Northern girl won the love and respect 
of all. There she met the man who was to be her hus- 
band — a young lawyer, able and ambitious, but weighted 
down by family cares, political convictions and ill 
health. He was a Union man whose family had made 
their slaves free and who opposed secession to the last. 
Grandmother was married and went to the South just 
before the storm broke. What a life that was in the 
dreary little town during those years of fighting ! Her 
husband was at one time drafted into the Confederate 
service and sent to the front only to have a surgeon 
declare him too feeble and sick for even that desperate 
service. He cobbled shoes, leached the soil in old smoke- 
houses for salt, and " lived " as best he could. Once 
he took Grandmother through the lines with a bale of 
cotton which he sold to pay passage money to the North. 
After the war he was State Senator and Judge under 
the patched-up government which followed. Carpet- 
baggers and rascals from the North lined their pockets 
with gold and brought shame upon their party and tor- 
ture and death to the ignorant black men who followed 
them. In the midst of this carnival of shame and thiev- 



32 HOPE FARM NOTES 

ing Grandmother's husband never touched a dishonest 
dollar and did his best to give character to a despised 
and degraded race. Of course he failed, for the race 
did not have strength enough to see that what he tried 
to offer them was better than the hatred of their old 
masters and the dollars which the carpet-baggers held 
out. It was not all lost, for when he was buried I am 
told that around his grave there was a thick fringe of 
white people and back — at a respectful distance — acres 
of black, shining faces which betrayed the crude, awk- 
ward stirring of manhood in hearts untrained yet ap- 
preciating true service to country. 

I speak of these things to make my point clear that 
Grandmother was a woman capable of supporting her 
husband through these trials and still capable of hold- 
ing the love of those who opposed him. In the face of 
an opposition so frightful that few of us can realize it 
this quiet, unflinching woman kept steadily on, respected 
and trusted by all. She took up her burdens without 
complaint, hid her troubles in her heart, and walked 
bravely on in her quiet, humble way, until at last she 
found a safe haven with her children. A true and sin- 
cere Christian woman she lived and acted out her faith 
and did her life's duty with dignity and cheerfulness. 
The little folks as they sit beneath the tree at Hope 
Farm and talk of Grandmother will have only blessed 
memories of her. 



LAUGHTEK AM) KELIGION 

I have learned to have deep sympathy for the man who 
cannot laugh. He may have great learning or power or 
skill or wealth, but if fate has denied him a keen sense 
of humor he is like a Mcintosh apple with the glorious 
flavor left out. Most of the deaf are denied what we 
may call " the healing balm of tears." Unless there 
chance to be some volcanic eruption of the heart they 
must go in dry-eyed sorrow through their years. Yet, 
if they are able to laugh it is probable that the deaf 
see more of the ludicrous side of life than do those who 
have full hearing. It comes to be amusing to notice 
how men and women strive and worry over the poor non- 
essential things of conversation, and waste time and 
strength trying to make others understand simple things 
which the deaf man comes to know at a glance. Those 
who are so unfortunate that they are forced to hear all 
the litter and waste-basket stuff of conversation may 
wonder why the inability to hear may act as* a torture 
to the tender heart. They do not know how closely 
sound is related to the emotions. They cannot under- 
stand without losing many of the finer things of life. 
Yet, as between the tearless man and the unfortunate 
soul who is denied the joy of laughter, the latter is more 
deserving of sympathy. One may be nearer insanity 
but the other is nearer the gallows. 

One great reason why the negro race has come through 

33 



34 HOPE FARM NOTES 

its troubles with reasonable success is because fate has 
given the black man the blessed privilege of laughter. 
Many a time when other races would have gone out to 
rob and kill the black man has been able to sing or 
laugh his troubles away. So, as between the man who 
cannot weep or lash himself into a rage and he who can- 
not laugh, the latter is a far more dangerous citizen and 
far more to be pitied. 

I suppose I ought to be an authority on this subject, 
as some years ago I was in the business of trying to 
inoculate some very serious and sad-minded people with 
the germ of laughter. We had some specimens so 
tough and so hard-boiled that it was a difficult matter 
to start them. I was stranded in a farm neighborhood 
in a Western State working as hired man through a very 
dull winter. Back among the hills, off the main roads 
when prices are low and crops are poor, you strike a 
gloom and social stagnation which the modern town man 
can hardly realize. I did my work by day and at night 
went about to churches and schoolhouses " speaking 
pieces." We called those gloomy and discouraged peo- 
ple together and tried to make them laugh. 

I remember one such entertainment held in a country 
schoolhouse far back in the mud of a January thaw. 
The dimly lighted room was crowded with sad-faced, dis- 
couraged men and women to whom life had become a 
tragedy through dwelling constantly upon their own 
troubles. At intervals during my entertainment two 
sad-faced women and a couple of men who would have 
made a success as undertakers at any funeral sang dole- 
ful songs about beautiful women who died young or 



LAUGHTER AND RELIGION 35 

children who proved early in life that they were too 
good for this world. During one of these intervals 
a farmer led me outdoors for a conference. Your mod- 
ern artist can command a salary which enables him to 
ignore criticism, but in that neighborhood the financial 
manager was the boss. 

" See here now," said the farmer, " we hired you to 
come here and make us laugh. Why don't you do it? 
I've got my hired man in there. He's all ready to go on 
a spree and he will do it if you don't make him laugh. 
We have paid you $2.50 to come here and speak. That 
means $1.25 an hour or $12.50 for a 10-hour day. No 
other man in this neighborhood gets such wages. It's 
big money, now go back and earn it. Make that man 
laugh! It's a moral obligation for you to do it." 

There was the hired man, a great hulk of humanity 
feeling that he would be a hero, the champion of the 
neighborhood, if he could hold humor at bay. When I 
went back into the schoolroom the teacher stood up by 
the stove and said it was the unanimous request of the 
audience that I should read or recite the " Raven," by 
Edgar Allan Poe. That was not exactly in my line, but 
who is large enough to resist such an appeal? Years 
before I had heard a great actor in Boston recite the 
poem, and with the noble courage of youth I started the 
best imitation I could muster. ~Ro one, not even the 
author, ever considered the " Raven " as a humorous 
poem, but it struck the hired man that way. I had 
cracked jokes in and out of dialect. I had " made 
faces " and played the clown generally without affect- 
ing the hired man. Yet, at the third repetition of 



36 HOPE FARM NOTES 

" Quoth the Raven — Nevermore ! " the hired man ex- 
ploded with a roar that shook the building, and the rest 
of the entertainment was one long laugh for him. The 
rest of the audience joined with him, and long after the 
meeting closed and the lanterns twinkled down the dark 
and muddy roads, you could hear roars of laughter from 
the farmers, as they journeyed home. Just what there 
was about the " Raven " to explode that man I have 
never known. It changed his life. It broke a spring 
somewhere inside of him and his jokes and roars of 
laughter changed the whole social life of that neigh- 
borhood. The minister told me in the Spring that his 
people had received a great spiritual uplifting during 
the Winter. He gave no credit whatever to Poe and the 
hired man. 

That same Winter I went to a church for another 
entertainment. I sat in the pulpit beside the minister 
and every time I stopped for breath he would lean over 
and whisper: 

"Make them laugh! Give them something humor- 
ous! Make them laugh!" 

He saw that laughter was religion at such a time. It 
was a gloomy night. The people were sad and discour- 
aged. Their religion was a torment to them at the 
time. Nothing but laughter could cure them, and I 
did my best with discouraging results. I will confess 
that I lost faith for once in my life and quit trying. 
There was one intelligent and prosperous farmer in the 
front pew. He seemed to be a leader and I directed 
my efforts straight to him. It came to be the one desire 
of my life to make that solemn-faced man laugh, and he 



LAUGHTER AND RELIGION 37 

would not do it. It seemed to me as if he sat there 
with his solemn face a little bent forward, like some 
wise old horse listening to the chatter of a young colt. 
I could not stir him and I confess that I quit inglori- 
ously and " took up the collection." 

But, when we all went out on the church steps while 
lanterns were being lighted and the boys brought up the 
horses I saw my solemn-faced friend talking with an- 
other farmer. 

" John," said the farmer as he snapped down the 
globe of his lantern, " how did you like the show ? " 

" Well, Henry, it was good all the way through. I am 
so sore around my ribs that I'm going home to rub 
liniment on my sides." 

" How's that ? " 

"Why, Henry, that young feller was so funny that 
I never come so nigh to laughing in the House of God 
as I done tonight. When I get home out of sight of the 
elder, I am going to stand right up on my hind-legs and 
holler." 



A DAY IJST FLOKIDA 

A man told me last week that Florida was too dull for 
him. He would rust out. There was " more life and 
human nature on Broadway, New York, in 15 minutes 
than in a week of Florida." So I thought I would see 
how much " real human nature " the sun could observe 
as Putnam County revolved beneath his eye. 

As I came outdoors the sun was bright with hardly 
a cloud in the sky. The mercury stood at about 65 
degrees. Most of the bloom had fallen from the orange 
trees and the young fruit had begun to form, while the 
new leaves showed their light green against the darker 
old leaves. On the tree by the gate, there were peaches 
as large as walnuts. A drove of half -wild hogs from the 
woods went slowly along the village street, with one 
eye open for food and the other watching for a possible 
hole in a fence through which they might crawl into a 
grove or garden. For while no one seems to think it 
worth while to bolt or even shut a house door at night 
except for warmth, there must be barbed wire around 
every growing thing that a hog could fancy. Two red 
hens with their broods of chickens ran about under the 
orange trees. In front of the house I found a group of 
" redheads and towheads " gathered around a fisherman 
who carried a fertilizer sack. He had caught three 
young alligators and the children were buying them. 
They finally got the three for a dollar, and they intend 

38 



A DAY IN FLORIDA 39 

taking the hideous things back to JSTew Jersey to " raise " 
them. You may yet see an improved breed of Hope 
Farm alligator. Finally the school bell rang and the 
older children scattered while the little ones played on. 
I have said that the child crop is a vanishing product 
in this locality. I understand there are but four white 
children of school age — not enough to maintain a school ! 
There is a broken and abandoned schoolhouse here, but 
it has not been occupied for some years. There is a 
school for colored children. Our people opened a school 
here, but in this locality the State actually does more 
for educating colored children than for whites. Think 
over what that means and see if Broadway can match 
the " human nature " which comes out of such a situa- 
tion. Our own children are rosy as flowers. They 
ought to be, for they have played out in the sun every 
day since December 1. They would have gone barefoot 
nine days out of ten, but for sand burrs and hook- 
worms — for that dread disease gets into the system 
through the feet. Florida is surely a Winter paradise 
for children and elderly people. As these children pen 
up their alligators and separate for school and play, an 
old man walks with firm and active steps down the 
shaded street to the store. He is 89 years old and is still 
planting a garden — very likely for the seventieth time ! 
On the platform of the store he will meet a group of 
men who will sit for hours discussing the weather or 
looking off through the pines toward the blue lake. On 
Broadway, people are rushing to and fro with set, 
anxious faces, tearing their hearts out in the fierce 
struggle for food, clothing, amusement and shelter. 



40 HOPE FARM NOTES 

There is quite as much " human nature " about these 
slow and gentle dreamers, basking in the Florida sun. 
In this little place where our folks have\wintered there 
are nine different men who live alone. There are per- 
haps 30 voters in this district, and strange as it may 
seem they are about evenly divided between the two 
great parties. That is because a number of old soldiers 
have moved in here. They draw their pensions, work 
their gardens or groves and live in peace in this care- 
free land. " Human nature ? " Ask these old soldiers 
with " warfare over," as the sun goes down and they 
look out over the lake, why they ever came to Florida, 
and if they are disappointed. If you started a contest 
with a prize for the man who can take the longest time 
to travel a mile, I could enter several citizens. Yet 
it was in Florida that the world's record for speed with a 
motor car was recently made. While some of our neigh- 
bors might consume two hours in going a mile, it was in 
Florida that Oldfield drove a car one mile in 27% 
seconds. This contest in speed is a very good illustra- 
tion of the contrary character of Florida climate and 
conditions. Many people fail here because they try to 
fit Broadway " human nature " to this balmy gentle 
land. You cannot use the same brand ! 

The forenoon wore off lazily. Across the road a man 
was working a mule on a cultivator — tearing up the 
surface of an old orange grove. The only auto in the 
town went by over the pine-paved road, the very cough 
of the exhaust pipe sounding like a lung rapidly healing 
in the soft air. Charlie went by followed by a big 
colored man. They carry spades and axes for Charlie 



A DAY IN FLORIDA 41 

is sexton, and this is one of the rare occasions when a 
grave is to be dug, for some old resident is being brought 
home to be buried. 

Mother and I had planned to take the train at noon 
and go south for a few miles to do some shopping and 
look up a " colony " or land boom scheme. So we got 
ready and went to the station in ample time. And 
there we waited, as everyone else does in this land of 
tomorrow. An hour crawled by, and still there was 
nothing in sight up the track except the distant pines 
and the heat rising from the sands. ~No one quarrels 
with fate in Florida — what is the use? Under similar 
circumstances in [New Jersey I should have been held in 
some way responsible for the delay, but here it did not 
matter — if the train did not come, another day would 
do. We waited about 100 long minutes and then the 
good lady announced that she was going home, as there 
would not be time to get around, and home she went, 
good-natured and smiling as the Florida sun. 

Let me add that the next day we waited nearly two 
hours again and then went home once more, but who 
cares whether he goes today or some future " to- 
morrow " ? 

Having been cut out of our trip I became interested 
in the funeral. A little group of wagons was drawn up 
under the pines waiting for the train. I have said that 
an old resident was coming " home " — to be buried by 
the side of husband and relatives — in the rough little 
cemetery behind the pines. At last, a puff of thick 
smoke up the track showed where the dawdling train 
was showing the true speed of a hearse. Down the grade 



42 HOPE FARM NOTES 

it came, halting with many a wheeze and groan in 
front of the little station where the fated box was taken 
off. Our little funeral procession was quickly made up. 
Uncle Ed drove old Frank ahead with the minister and 
the Hope Farm Man as passengers. Then came the 
dead in a farm wagon, and half a dozen one-horse teams 
straggling on behind. Your funeral on Broadway with 
its gilded hearse, black horses and nodding plumes 
might be far more inspiring. Who can say, however, that 
there was less of " human nature " in this little weather- 
beaten string crawling over the Florida sand? I was 
thinking as we went how this dead woman had seen 
what seemed like the death of hope in this land. For 
right where we were passing, on these dead fields, she 
had seen orange groves in full fruitage, and had seen 
them all wiped out in a day of frost! 

You would have said that Charlie stood leaning on 
his spade beside two great heaps of snow. The soil was 
pure white sand, and as they threw it from the grave it 
had drifted in over the sides until no dark color showed. 
On Broadway there would have been an imposing 
procession, the organ pouring out tones that seemed to 
carry a message far beyond the comprehension of the 
living. Here in this lonely little clearing, my friend 
the minister led the way, the little group of mourners 
followed, and Charlie and Uncle Ed with a few neigh- 
bors carried the dead. I wish I could have had you 
there with me — you who say that life and human nature 
crowd into the " lively " places. I wish I could paint 
the picture as I saw it. 

The minister and the station agent's wife began to 



A DAY IN FLORIDA 43 

sing. One of the men who helped carry the coffin laid 
down his load and joined the singers. They wanted me 
to make a quartette, but I am no musician and I could 
not have made a sound. It was better for me to stand 
in the background against a tree, by the side of the 
colored man who leaned on his shining spade and bowed 
his gray head. For does not the color line fade out at 
the grave? I wish you could have seen it, the trio of 
singers, the sad group under the pines, the earth piled 
up like snowdrifts, the pine tops quivering and moaning, 
and the Florida sun streaming over all. I felt the pine 
tree against which I leaned tremble as the wind blew 
through it. In a tree over us a gray squirrel turned his 
ear as if to listen. For gathered around those piles of 
glistening sand were men and women who carried all 
the world holds of " human nature " — tragedy, despair, 
hope, sorrow and peace. Not 100 feet from where I 
stood was a row of six little white stones where six old 
army comrades were buried. I studied their names, 
six men of the army and navy from New York, Maine, 
New Hampshire, South Carolina, Vermont and Ohio. 
There they lie in the sand, sleeping " the sleep that 
knows no waking." And this woman wanted to be 
brought back to this lonely place that she might rest 
with her people. " Human nature ? " I made a dull 
companion as old Frank toiled back with us to the 
village. 

Our folks had left the house and I followed them 
along the shady path to the lake. The younger people 
had been in bathing. They were sitting on the lake 
shore, the children were shouting and playing as they 



44 HOPE FARM NOTES 

ran about the beach. I am glad they were not at the 
funeral. As Mother and I walked slowly back, the little 
ones came trailing on, waving branches of palm and 
singing. And there over the fence was our famous 
gallon-and-a-half cow — easily the most energetic citizen 
in the place. 

Night comes quickly in Florida and brings a chill 
with it. The sun seems to tumble directly into the west 
and to leave little warmth behind. Before we ended 
our slow walk home, darkness had fallen and Uncle Ed 
had started a grateful fire of logs. As if to demonstrate 
the Florida axiom that there are only two absolutely sure 
things — death and taxes — we found the county assessor 
before the fire. He had reached us on his rounds and 
was ready to tell us how much we owed the State. You 
will see therefore that the human life in Florida is 
much the same as anywhere else only " more so " for 
here there is no artifice or straining after effect. Men 
and women are naturally human — as they were meant 
to be. 



THE BASEBALL GAME 

" Two strikes, three balls! " 

A silence so intense that you could feel it fell upon 
60,000 people who saw the umpire put up his hand to 
announce the second strike. It was the crisis of the first 
baseball game for the world's championship between 
!New York and Philadelphia. The great stands were 
black with people, and thousands more were perched 
upon the rocks which rose above the level in which the 
ball grounds are laid out. The boy and I sat on the 
bleachers. It was the only place we could get; we sat 
there three hours before the game began — and we were 
among the last to get in. Of course you will say we 
should have been at home picking apples — but without 
discussing that I will admit that we were packed away 
in that " bleacher " crowd. 

There were some 25,000 of us crowded on those 
wooden benches with our feet hanging down. Here 
and there in this black mass of hats a spot of lighter 
color showed where a woman had crowded in with the 
rest. There may have been 100 women in this crowd. 
The " stands " where the reserved seats are placed were 
bright with women's gay colors. Our seats were not 
reserved, but well "deserved" after our struggle for 
them. 

I enjoyed the crowd as much as the game. Many of 

45 



46 HOPE FARM NOTES 

you have no doubt read that description in " Ben Hur " 
of the motley crowd which surged out to the Crucifixion. 
Gibbon describes the masses of humans who attended the 
Roman games. The world as known at that time gath- 
ered at these spectacles, yet I doubt if those old-time 
hordes could produce the variety of blood or color which 
showed within 1,000 feet of where we sat. Within four 
feet sat two colored men showing traces of two distinct 
African races. The young man on my right was cer- 
tainly an Irishman. The fat man, who was wide 
enough to fill two seats, was a German. In front an 
Italian, behind a Swede, off there a Frenchman, a Span- 
iard and even a Chinaman. There was an Arab whose 
father ate dates in the desert. The son looked forward 
to this date as an oasis in the desert of hard work. 
Here were Indians, Japanese, Mexicans, Russians, 
Turks — the entire world had poured the blood of its 
races into that vast crowd. I do not believe the great 
Coliseum at Rome ever held a larger company. Yet this 
crowd was different. In the savage hordes of centuries 
ago the air was filled with a babel of sound — each race 
shrieking in its own language. This vast army of 
" fans " thought and spoke in the common languages of 
English and baseball. Eor there is a true language of 
baseball. Nothing can be popular unless it acquires a 
language of its own. It was an orderly crowd too. 
Somehow these waiting men seemed to feel that they had 
come to the hush and dignity of a great occasion. You 
may laugh at us — you poor unfortunate people who do 
not know a home run from a fly catch, but you have 
missed a lot of the thrill and joy of life. We feel sorry 



THE BASEBALL GAME 47 

for you. To the true baseball crank this game repre- 
sented the climax of the year, for here were the best 18 
players in the world ready for the supreme struggle. 
So these thousands sat silent and watchful. As you 
know, when stirred by passion 60,000 people can give 
vent to the most hideous and awesome sound. Yet when 
stilled by the thought of what is to come the silence of 
this great army is most profound. Now, of course, you 
and I may say — what a pity that all these people and 
all the energy and money they represent could not be 
used for some more useful purpose. I could name half a 
dozen things which this country needs. If it were pos- 
sible to gather 60,000 people in behalf of any of these 
things with the claws of elemental savagery barely cov- 
ered with thin cotton gloves no Legislature in the land 
would dare refuse the demanded law. That is true, but 
it is also true that human nature has not yet evolved 
from the point where at the last analysis the physical 
power and what it stands for appeals first to the young 
and strong. You cannot get away from that, and it 
must be considered in all our regrets about the " younger 
generation." We can have anything we want in legisla- 
tion and reform whenever we can work up a spirit and 
a demand for it which is akin to this baseball feeling! 
For in this silent, orderly crowd there was nothing but 
cotton over the claws. There was a dignified-looking citi- 
zen not far from us who looked like a fair representative 
of the " City of Brotherly Love." You would choose 
him as one of a thousand to take charge of a Sunday 
school. Yet when a Philadelphia player raced home 
with the first run there came a hoarse cry that might 



48 HOPE FARM NOTES 

have startled even a listless Csesar 2,000 years ago. 
There was our Philadelphia friend on one foot waving 
his hat and shrieking defiance and taunts at the crowd 
of JSTew York "fans." Why, the germ of that man's 
mind was back in the centuries, clad in hairy flesh and 
skins shouting a war cry at what were then its enemies ! 
And when New York tied the score the entire bleachers 
seemed to rise like a great black wave of humanity with 
shrieks and cries and waving hats. For the moment 
these were hardly human beings — as we like to con- 
sider the race. They were crazy barbarians lapsed for 
the moment back to elemental motives. And as I came 
back to find myself standing up with the rest I was not 
sure but that the brief trip back to barbarism had after 
all been a profitable one ! 

But we left the umpire standing with his hand up 
calling two strikes! It was the fifth inning, with the 
score one to one. There were two out and New York 
had worked a man around to third base. One more 
pitched ball would tell the story. Consider the mix-up of 
the races in this " American game." The man on third 
base straining like a greyhound to get home was an 
Indian. The man at bat was of French blood, while 
the next batter was an Irishman with a Jew close behind 
him. The catcher was an Englishman and the pitcher 
a pure Indian. This Indian stood there like a silent 
representative of fate with the ball in his hand, eyeing 
that Frenchman, who shook his bat defiantly. I pre- 
sume neither of them thought for the instant how 200 
years ago it would have been tomahawk against musket 
in place of ball and bat. Yet the race traits were evi- 



THE BASEBALL GAME 49 

dent — the light and airy nerve of the Gaul and the 
crafty silence of the red man ! Oh, how that ball did go 
in ! " Ball ! " shouted the umpire and the batter took his 
base. Then it seemed as if bedlam had broken loose. 
Men and women shouted and cheered and laughed and 
cried, for they thought that the Indian was " rattled " at 
last. But his ancestors went through too much fire for 
that. He stood in the center as cool as a cake of ice. 
The play for the man on first was to run to second 
when the ball was pitched, and run he did. I noticed 
that the catcher jumped six feet to the right as that 
Indian threw the ball. It went like lightning right into 
the catcher's hands. The second baseman had run up 
behind the pitcher and took the throw from the catcher. 
Of course the runner on third tried to run in on this 
throw, but back came the ball ahead of him and he was 
out! Then in an instant the mighty crowd saw that 
New York had been ambushed. It was a great trick, 
and played so accurately and quickly and with such 
daring that even the Philadelphia " fans " were mind- 
paralyzed and forgot to cheer. The silence which fol- 
lowed the Indian to the players' bench was the most 
eloquent tribute of the day. And it happened, as every 
" sport " already knows, that New York finally won 
two to one. The needed runs were made on mighty hits 
by an Indian and an Irishman, and the great crowd 
filed out and home to talk it over. I wish I could tell my 
children how some Cape Cod Yankee had a hand in it, 
but too many of these are occupied in telling what they 
or their ancestors used to do. I think the game was 
invented and developed by Yankees, and that they have 



50 HOPE FARM NOTES 

made the most money out of it. Probably Cape Cod is 
willing to rest content with this and let the others 
handle the ball. I am ready to admit we ought to have 
been home picking apples, but we saw the game, and 
the apple harvest will go better to pay for it. 



TRANSPLANTING THE YOUNG IDEA 

Of all the planting that a farmer finds it necessary to 
do there is nothing quite equal to transplanting home- 
grown plants in the garden of education. Some homes 
might be called hotbeds, others are very cold frames, 
and there are grades running all between. Children 
grow up away from childhood and show that they are 
ready for transplanting — with evidences around the 
head to be compared with those on a tomato plant. 
You cut off their roots, and try to trim their heads 
and plant them in the hard field of practical life or in 
the sheltered garden of education. It is a large under- 
taking, for here is the best crop of your farm put out 
at a hazard. You may not have grown or trimmed it 
right, and the soil in which you plant it may not prove 
congenial, or some wild old strain from a remote an- 
cestor may " come back " when it should " stay out." 
You cannot tell about these things except by experiment, 
therefore there is nothing quite equal to this sort of 
transplanting. That is the way Mother and I felt as we 
took the two older children off to college. My experi- 
ence has taught me both the power and the weakness of 
an education. He who can grasp the true spirit of it 
acquires a trained mind, and that means mastery. He 
who simply " goes to college " and drifts along with 
the crowd without real mental training is worse off than 
if he never had entered. He cannot live up to his repu- 

51 



52 HOPE FARM NOTES 

tation as a college man, and when a man must go 
through life always dragging hehind his reputation he is 
only a tin can tied to the tail of what was once his am- 
bition. I can imagine an intelligent parrot going 
through college, and perhaps passing the examinations, 
but all his life he would be a parrot, unable to apply 
what he had learned to practical things. I made up 
my mind long ago to give each one of the children 
opportunity. That means a chance to study through a 
good college. Each and every one must pay back to me 
later the money which this costs. My backing con- 
tinues just as long as they show desire, through their 
labor, to think and work out the real worth of educa- 
tion. Should they become mentally and morally lazy 
and assume that " going to college " is like having the 
measles or raising a beard — out they come at once, for 
if I know anything at all it is the fact that the so- 
called student who goes through college just because his 
parents think it is the thing to do makes about as poor 
a drone as the human hive can produce. 

Where should the children go \ The case of the girl 
was quickly settled by her mother. Years ago this good 
lady had her own dreams of a college education and 
knew just where she wanted to go. Denied the privi- 
lege of going herself, she nominated her daughter as 
her substitute. That settled it — there was no primary 
or referendum or special election. There seemed to me 
something of poetic realization in this setting of the 
only bud into the long-desired and long impossible tree 
of knowledge. As for the boy— the case was different. 
I would like to send at least one child back to my old 



TRANSPLANTING THE YOUNG IDEA 53 

college, and I think a couple of the smaller ones will 
go later. I know better than to try to crowd boys into 
associations which are not congenial. If yonr boy has 
intelligence enough to justify his going to college let 
him use his intelligence to decide something of what he 
wants. I advised the boy to select one of the smaller 
colleges of high reputation and keep away from the 
great universities. He made what I call a good choice — 
an institution of high character, lonely location and 
with one great statesman graduate who stands up in his- 
tory like a great lighthouse, to show the glory of public 
life and the dangerous rock of his own private habits. 
Well, Mother and I traveled close to 900 miles up 
and down through New England on this trip of plan- 
ning in the garden of education. I could write a book 
on the memories and anticipations which filled the minds 
of this Hope Farm quartette. As the train rushed up 
the country, winding through villages and climbing hills, 
we took on groups of bright-faced boys on their way to 
college. Before we reached the end of our journey 
the train was crowded with them. There was one sour- 
faced old fellow on the train who viewed those boys with 
no benevolent eye. 

" A lazy, careless lot. I'd put them all at work ! " 
The old man was wrong — he was sour. Even the 
evidence of hope and faith in the future which those 
bright-eyed boys brought could not sweeten him. Here 
were the thinkers and dreamers and workers of the fu- 
ture. Underneath their fun and careless hope they 
carried the prayers of their mothers and the poorly ex- 
pressed dreams of fathers who saw in those boys the 



54 HOPE FARM NOTES 

one chance to carry on a life work. While the old man 
scowled on I found myself quoting from " Snow Bound," 
Whittier's picture of the college boy who taught the 
winter school: 

" Large-brained, clear-eyed, of such as he 
Shall Freedom's young apostles be." 

The responsibility of acting as " young apostles " 
would have wearied these boys, but unconsciously they 
were absorbing part of the spirit which will fit them 
for the work. Finally the train stopped and poured 
us out into a dusty road. There were not teams enough 
to carry 10 per cent of the crowd, and the rest of us 
cheerfully took up our burdens, crossed the river and 
mounted a steep and dusty hill. It took me back 30 
years and more, to my first three-mile dusty walk to 
college. At the hilltop, as the glory of the college 
campus stood revealed in the shimmering light of the 
setting sun, it must have seemed to the freshmen that 
they had surely been " walking up Zion's hill." To me 
it was like old times patched up and painted with per- 
haps a few ornaments added. Two boys went by bend- 
ing under the weight of mattresses. When I first hit 
college I bought a bedtick, carried it to the barn and 
stuffed it with straw. It was all the same, only there 
was the difference which the years naturally bring in 
comfort and convenience. But finally the darkness came 
and the moon seemed to climb up over the college build- 
ings, flooding the campus with long bright splinters of 
light. As we walked back under the trees there came 
back to me the one, unchangeable, holy thing of col- 



TRANSPLANTING THE YOUNG IDEA 55 

lege life — the undying, gentle, kindly spirit of the 
college which a man must carry as long as he lives. 

We got up before five o'clock and traveled far down 
the Connecticut Valley to plant the family flower. 
Those of you who have read " The Princess " and have 
fairly active imaginations may realize how the Hope 
Farm man felt at this institution. Here men did not 
even reach a back seat. There was absolutely nothing for 
me to do except stand about, hat in hand, and pay the 
bills. At the railroad station three good-looking girls 
of the Y. W. C. A. met us and told us just where to go. 
At the college another girl took a suitcase and walked 
off with it to show my daughter's room. The express 
business and the trunks were all handled by a fine- 
looking woman who gave points on good-nature to any 
express agent I ever saw. The sale of furniture, the 
bureau of information, the handling of money — the com- 
plete organization was conducted by women and girls. 
It was all well done, in a thoroughly business-like man- 
ner and with rare courtesy. True, the girls who con- 
ducted the information bureau stopped now and then 
to eat popcorn or candy. College boys of equal rank 
would probably have smoked cigarettes. There was 
just one other man in the hall, who, like me, had brought 
his daughter there to plant her in the garden of educa- 
tion. I caught his eye, and knew that our thoughts 
were twins. I fully expected at any time to see " two 
stalwart daughters of the plow " approaching to do their 
duty. 

The spirit of this college seemed excellent. It may 
be a debatable question with some as to whether a school 



56 HOPE FARM NOTES 

taught, organized and conducted entirely by women is 
more desirable than one taught by men or where co- 
education is permitted. There is no debate in our family, 
since the ruling spirit, whose instincts are usually right, 
has decided the question. It seemed to me that the 
training at this school is sure to give these girls respon- 
sibility and dignity. My two girls went into a store to 
buy furniture for the room, and I stayed outside until 
the time came for my part of the deal — paying for it. 
Across the campus and up the street came a beautiful 
woman walking slowly and thoughtfully on. Tall and 
shapely, but for her years she might have represented 
Tennyson's Princess. Every movement of her body gave 
the impression of power. Her face seemed like a mask 
of patient suffering with an electric light of knowledge 
and faith behind it. I remember years ago to have 
seen another such woman walking across the village 
green in a country town. A rough man a stranger to 
me, took off his hat and said : 

" Some woman — that ! " 

Yes, indeed — " some woman ! " It is possible that 
some of these " daughters of the plow " had an eye on 
the Hope Earm man for watching ladies walking across 
the campus, but had they arrested me I should have 
told them the story of Billy Hendricks. Billy was 
apprentice in a printer's shop in England. The boss 
offered a prize and a raise in wages to the apprentice 
who could set up a certain advertisement in the best 
form. Billy needed the money. He went to the fore- 
man and asked: 



TRANSPLANTING THE YOUNG IDEA 57 

" How can I make this ' ad ' so it will show true 
proportions ? " 

" Look at me ! " said the foreman. 

There he stood, big and broad-shouldered, a true 
figure of a man, and as Billy studied him he found 
the words of that " ad " shaping themselves in his 
mind. The others were mechanical. Billy had vision 
and won. Some of us who must admit that we have 
neither beauty nor shape are glad to have before our 
children an example of what the coming woman ought 
to be. 



THE SLEEPLESS MAN 

Some of our people are telling us about the best or the 
most satisfying meal they ever ate. This question of 
food seems to depend on habit, hunger and personal 
taste. I saw a man once in a lumber camp eat plate 
after plate of a stew made of meat, potatoes and car- 
rots — cooked in a big iron kettle over an open fire. At 
home, this man would have growled at turkey or ter- 
rapin, but here he was pushing back his plate again and 
again asking the cook to put more carrots in. " Why," 
he said, " I thought carrots were made for horses to 
eat. I didn't know human beings ate them ! " He 
never had been a real human before — not until hunger 
caught him and pulled him right up to that iron pot. 
At his club in the city he could not have eaten three 
mouthfuls of that stew. 

It is different with sleep. The man with no appetite 
can get on after a fashion, but if he cannot sleep he is a 
pitiable object. I met one once — a rich man who had 
worked too hard — starved himself for sleep in order 
to get hold of rather more than his share of money and 
power. He had passed the limit of nerves and was 
denied the power of sleeping. A few snatches of rest 
were all he could get, but through the long still nights 
he lay awake, thinking, thinking with the constant terror 
that this would end in a disordered mind. 

We sat before this man's fire late at night, and he 

58 



THE SLEEPLESS MAN 59 

told me all about it. To you sleep seems like a very 
common and simple thing. The night finds you tired and 
you shut your eyes and before you know it you are sail- 
ing off into a peaceful, unknown country. Here was a 
man who could not sleep. He must remain chained to 
the cares and terrors of his daily life, and the bitter- 
ness of it was that all the money he had slaved so hard 
to obtain could not buy him what comes to you and me 
with the mere closing of the eyes. It seemed to me the 
most despairing mockery for this man to repeat Sir 
Philip Sidney's " Ode to Sleep": 

" Come sleep ; O Sleep ! the certain hour of peace, 
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, 
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, 
The indifferent judge between the high and low ; 
With shield of proof, shield me from out the prease 
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw; 

make in me these civil wars to cease 

1 will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 

Make thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, 
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, 
A rosy garland and a weary head." 

" That's it," said my friend, " A weary head, a 
weary head. Mine is weary, but sleep will not come." 
He sat looking at the fire for a long time, and then 
he turned suddenly with a sort of haunted look in his 
eyes. 

" I wish you would tell me about the best sleep you 
ever had. Men may tel 1 of their best meal, but I want 
to know about rest — the best sleep." 

It was a strange request, but as I sat there, my mind 
went back to a hillside near the New England coast 
where the valley slopes away to a salt marsh with a 



60 HOPE FARM NOTES 

sluggish stream running through it. A low, weather- 
beaten farmhouse crouches at the foot of the wind- 
swept hill. It is a lonely place. Few come that way 
in daylight, and at night there are no household lights 
to be seen. 

It had rained through the night, and the morning 
brought a thick heavy fog. It was too wet to hoe corn, 
and Uncle Charles said we could all go gunning. He 
was an old soldier, a sharpshooter, and a famous shot 
So we tramped off along the marsh following the creek 
until it reached the ocean. What a glorious day that 
was for a boy! I carried an old army musket that 
kicked my shoulder black and blue. We tramped along 
the shore and through the wet marsh, hunting for sand- 
pipers and other sea fowl. E~ow and then a flock of 
birds would seem to be lost in the fog, and Uncle Charles 
would whistle them to where we lay in ambush. It 
all comes back, — clear and distinct, — the cries of the 
sea fowl and dull roar of the ocean as it pounded upon 
the beach. Late in the afternoon we tramped home wet 
and tired, but with a long string of birds. The ocean 
roared on behind us louder than ever as the wind arose. 

It was not good New England thrift to eat those 
birds — the. guests at the Parker House in Boston would 
pay good money for them. While we had been hunting, 
Aunt Eleanor and the girls in the lonely farmhouse 
had been busy with a " ISTew England Dinner." There 
was a big plate of salt codfish, first boiled and then 
fried crisp with little cubes of browned salt pork mixed 
with it. There were boiled potatoes which split open 
in a rich dry flour, boiled onions and carrots and great 



THE SLEEPLESS MAN 61 

slices of brown bread and butter. Then the odor from 
the oven betrayed the crowning act of all — a monstrous 
pan-dowdy, or apple grunt ! Ever eat a genuine pan- 
dowdy in a New England kitchen as a wet dreary night 
is coming on after a tiresome day? No? I am both 
sorry and glad for you. You have missed one of the 
greatest joys of life, but you have much to look for- 
ward to. When Uncle Charles began to cut that pan- 
dowdy, we boys realized that we could not do it full 
justice, so we went out and ran around the house half 
a dozen times to make more room for the top of the 
feast. 

After supper the dishes were washed, the house 
cleaned up, and we washed out our guns. The old 
musket had kicked my shoulder so that I could hardly 
raise the arm, but no human being could have made me 
admit it. We got Uncle Charles to tell us about the 
time he shot at the officer at Port Hudson during the 
war, and about the humpbacked man who carried the 
powder from Plymouth to Boston during the Revolu- 
tion. Then through the gloom and fog came two young 
men to call on the girls. In those days it seemed to- 
me very poor taste for one to listen to the conversation 
of girls rather than war stories. True, the war stories 
were time-worn, but the girl conversation was older yet. 
Soon the little melodeon was talking up and a quartette 
was singing the old songs of half a century ago. It 
may have been the day's tramping, the old musket, the 
last plate of pan-dowdy or the tap of the rain on the 
windows, but sitting there by the warm kitchen stove, I 
felt a delicious drowsiness stealing over me. 



62 HOPE FARM NOTES 

Bed is the place for sleep, and we boys climbed the 
stairs past the great center chimney, and quickly tum- 
bled into bed. In the room below that quartette had 
started an old favorite: 

" Along the aisles of the dim old forest 
I strayed in the dewy dawn 
And heard far away in their silent branches 
The echoes of the morn. 

" They stirred my heart with their low, sweet voices, 
Like chimes from a holier land, 
As though far away in those haunted arches 
Were happy — an angel band." 

There was one great booming bass voice which had 
unconsciously fallen into the key of the dull roar which 
the distant ocean was making. The rain was gently 
tapping on the roof, and all the joys and pleasant memo- 
ries of youth were whispering happy things in our ears 
as we sailed off on the most beautiful voyage to dream- 
land. 

I told this as best I could before the fire while my 
weary friend listened, leaning back in his easy-chair 
with his hand shading his face. And when I stopped 
sleep had come to him at last — sweet and blessed sleep. 
There are very few of us who would stand for a 
photograph taken while we were asleep, but this man's 
face was free from care. An orator might not think 
it a high tribute to his powers that he sent his audience 
to sleep, but I am not an orator, and I would like to be 
able to give my friends what they consider the blessed 
things of life ! And Peace, blissful Peace, had put her 
healing hand upon my poor friend's head. 



LINCOLN'S BIKTHDAY 

It brought the worst storm we have had this Winter. 
This season will pass on into history as about the rough- 
est we have had in 20 years. There came a whirl of 
snow which filled the air and sifted in through every 
crack and hole. We let the storm alone, and got away 
from it. Merrill sorted out seed corn at the barn. 
Philip had some inside painting to do, the women folks 
kept at their household work, and the children got out 
into the storm. They came in now and then to stand by 
the fire — with faces the color of their hair. As for 
me, I cannot say that I hurt myself with hard labor. 
We piled the logs in the open fireplace and started a 
roaring fire. With a pile of books on one side and a 
pen and paper at the other, my big chair gave a very 
good foundation for a Lincoln celebration. I presume 
we all have our personal habits of reading. Some peo- 
ple read only one kind of books, and stick to the one 
in hand until it is finished. My plan is different. 
Eight now I am reading Dante, " Kural Credits," 
" Manufacture of Chemical Manure," Whittier's Poems 
and Lowell's essay on Abraham Lincoln. A poor jumble 
of stuff for a human head you will say, but I turn from 
one to another, so that instead of a mixed-up jumble I 
try to have these different thoughts in layers through 
the mind. In this way one may get a blend which is 
better than a hash. It may seem absurd to think of 



64 HOPE FARM NOTES 

putting poetry into rural credits or fertilizers, but un- 
less you can do something of the sort you can never get 
very far with them. 

That was the great secret of Lincoln's power. As 
judged by knowledge or training or what we call " edu- 
cation/' there were many abler men in the country at 
his time, but Lincoln knew how to appeal to the imagi- 
nation of the plain, common people. Read his speeches 
and papers and see how he framed a fact with a mental 
picture which the common people could understand. 
There were some wonderful pictures at the World's 
Fair in Chicago. Some were called masterpieces of 
fabulous value. People stood before them and went on 
with something of awe in their heart — not quite grasp- 
ing the artist's meaning. One less pretentious picture 
was named " The Breaking of Home Ties," and day 
by day a great throng stood before it, silent and wet- 
eyed. It was a very simple home scene, picturing a 
boy leaving his country home. Men studied it, walked 
away and then turned and slowly came back that they 
might see it once more. As long as they live people 
will remember that picture, because the poetry of it ap- 
pealed to them as the higher art could not do. I think 
Lincoln held the imagination of the plain people much 
as that picture did. He was one who had suffered and 
had been brought up with plain and simple family habits 
which were fixed. 

The children have come running in to warm their 
hands. They are lined up in front of the big fire, rosy- 
faced and covered with snow. They stand looking at 
me as I write. Dinner is nearly ready, and there is no 



LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY 65 

question about their readiness for it. Here comes 
Mother to look out at the storm, and she forgets to re- 
member that this group of snowbirds by my fire have 
forgotten to stamp the snow off their feet. There will 
be a puddle of water when they move off — but it will 
soon dry up. As I watch them all it seems a good time 
to pick up Lowell's essay on Lincoln: 

"He is so eminently our representative man, that, 
token he speaks, it seems as if the people were listening 
to their own thinking aloud. . . . He has always ad- 
dressed the intelligence of men. Never their prejudices, 
their passion or their ignorance/' 

Now I think that intelligence and power to speak as 
people think can only come out of good family relations. 
Do I mean to say that the family group is superior to 
the college, the school or the other great institutions for 
training human thought ? I do, wherever the family 
group is bound together as it should be by love, good 
will, ambition and something of sacrifice! 

This nation and every other is ruled by the family 
spirit. All public government is based on self-govern- 
ment, and the family is the training school for all. 
What could the college or the school do with a great 
crowd or mob of students who have never known the 
restraints of good family life % Ask any teacher to tell 
you the difference between children reared in a clean, 
careful family and those reared where the family rela- 
tions are much like a cross-cut saw. Line up the adults 
you know, make a fair estimate of their character and 
see whether you can select those who in their childhood 
had a fair chance in family life. There are, of course, 



66 



HOPE FARM NOTES 



exceptions to all rules, but generally the boy or girl will 
carry through life the habits and the human policies 
which are given him in the family. As a rule these will 
be carried into the new family which the boy or girl 
may start, and thus be handed on like those qualities 
which are transmitted through blood lines. ISTo use talk- 
ing — the family unit is the most important element in 
human society. A nation's fame rests upon the nation's 
family. 

I think a man may fairly be judged by the way he 
treats his parents, his children and his wife. I do 
not care how he gets out and shows himself off as a 
great man and a good citizen. He might get an over- 
whelming vote for Congress or Governor, but God will 
judge him more by the votes of father, mother, son, 
daughter, wife ! To me there can be nothing more 
beautiful than the best relation between a man of middle 
years and his aged parents. Perhaps the latter are 
feeble and not well-to-do. When they can sit in their 
son's home happy and comfortable, knowing that the 
entire family has been taught to put them first of all 
in family regard, you have struck about the finest test 
of a man's character that good citizenship can offer. 
When the children chase their father about and, out 
of their own thought, run to anticipate his wants, you 
can make up your mind that in that family are being 
trained men and women who can go out and absorb 
education and financial power which will be used for the 
true benefit of humanity. Most of us can never hope to 
be great men or to handle large public affairs, but we 
can make our family a training school for good citizen- 



LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY 67 

ship. I have no thought that in this group of bright- 
eyed youngsters lined up by my fire we are to have 
any great statesmen or authors or merchant princes or 
big folk generally. On the whole I hope not, as it would 
seem to me that the great man has a rather lonely life. 
I do expect, however, that these children will always 
remember Hope Farm, and that in future years when 
the world may turn a very cold side to them they will 
remember this stormy day and will feel the warmth of 
this kindly fire. 

I have wandered away from what I wanted to say 
about Lincoln and his power over the people. It was 
this family feeling which made him strong, and if you 
want your boy or girl to be really worth while you 
must give them and their mother the best family sur- 
roundings you can possibly secure. The man who taps 
the spring or the well and sends the water running 
through his house does far more for his country than 
he who runs for Congress and taps the public pocket- 
book. 

But here comes Mother again, with " Come now, 
dinner's ready. Don't let it get cold ! " Get cold ? The 
children are already at the table! I wish you could 
come right along with me. I would put two sausage 
cakes on your plate and fill it up with mealy potatoes 
and yellow turnips. Then you would have rice in an- 
other dish. There is a dish of thick, brown gravy and 
nothing would suit me better than to have you call for 
an egg — fried or boiled. The Reds are laying well now. 
There are two kinds of bread and plenty of butter, and 
we will take a family vote as to whether we shall take 



68 HOPE FARM NOTES 

peaches, strawberries, Kieffer pears, cherries or rasp- 
berries off the pantry shelves. I vote for Crosby 
peaches, but you will have a free choice and all you can 
eat. Surely the table makes a very strong family tie. 
Come on ! 



UNCLE ED'S PHILOSOPHY 

Uncle Ed had his home in Florida, but spent the Sum- 
mer working at Hope Farm. At the time I speak of 
we were hoeing corn at the top of our hill. We had 
just planted the apple orchard, and we both realized 
the long and weary years of toilsome waiting before 
there could be any fruit. It was a hot day, and at the 
end of the row we stopped to rest under the big cherry 
tree where the stone wall is broad and thick. It was 
a clear day, and far off across the rolling country to the 
East we could see the sparkle of the sun on some gilded- 
top building in New York. It gave one a curious feel- 
ing to stand in that shady retreat on $50 land in a 
lonely neighborhood, practically untouched by modern 
development, and glance across to the millions and the 
might crowded at the mouth of the Hudson. Most of us 
feel a sort of pride on viewing the evidence of wealth 
and power, even though we have no share in it, or even 
when we know it means blood money taken from our 
own lives. I felt something of this as I pointed it out 
to Uncle Ed, and told him how probably the overflow 
of that great city would some day make an acre of our 
orchard worth more than a farm in Florida. 

This did not seem to impress him greatly. He ran 
his eye over the glowing prospect and then slowly filled 
his pipe for a smoke. I am no friend of tobacco, but I 
confess that sometimes I enjoy seeing a man like Uncle 



70 HOPE FARM NOTES 

Ed slowly fill his pipe. I feel that some sort of homely 
philosophy is sure to he smoked out. 

" The trouhle with you folks up in this country," 
said Uncle Ed, " is that you work too hard. You get so 
that there is nothing in you hut work and save. And for 
what ? How many of you ever get the benefit of your 
own work ? Down where I live we don't exist for the 
mere sake of working. I have known the time when 
I got up determined to do a good day's work cultivating. 
I got the horse all harnessed, only to find that my neigh- 
bor on the south had borrowed the cultivator, and I 
couldn't do that. Then I thought I'd hoe, but the boys 
lost the hoe in the brush and couldn't find it. Then 
there was the woodpile to be cut up, but my neighbor on 
the north had borrowed the ax. 

" Now up in this country if fate challenged a man 
like that he would start picking up stones and making 
a stone wall. Here is one now that we are resting 
against. I'll bet some old owner of this farm piled up 
this heap of stones because he was determined that the 
boys never should play or go fishing. It is now the 
most useless thing you have on your farm. If, instead 
of picking up stones and building this useless wall, that 
old-timer had quit when fate gave him the sign, taken 
a day off and let the boys go fishing or play ball, this 
farm would be worth far more than it is today. Down 
in my country when the cultivator and the hoe and the 
ax all get away from us we accept it as a voice from, 
some higher authority, and we drop everything and go 
fishing. After that I notice things straighten out and 
work goes right. You fellows work too hard, and don't 



UNCLE ED'S PHILOSOPHY 71 

know it. But this won't buy the woman a dress — we 
must hoe this corn out." 

The rows ran to the south, and as we hoed on I could 
see, far away, that bright sparkle on the gilding of 
the big city. And I answered with the old familiar 
argument : 

" You have just told in a few words why there are 
more savings of the poor and middle-class people in 
that big city yonder than there are in the entire State 
of Florida." That was 16 years ago and the statement 
was probably true at the time. Florida has gained since 
then. 

" Up in this country we believe that the Lord gives 
every man of decent mind and reasonable body a chance 
to provide for himself and family before he is 45. If 
he doesn't do it by that time, he isn't likely to do it at 
all. We think that there are three ways of getting 
money. You can earn it through labor, steal it, or have 
it given to you. For most of us there is only one way — 
that is to dig it out by the hardest work, and then prac- 
tice self-denial in order to hold it. Up in this country 
the men who quit and go fishing when conditions turn 
against them, spend their declining years without any 
bait. That money off there where you see that sparkle 
was produced by men who did not go fishing when con- 
ditions turned against them." 

As I look back upon it now that seems pretty cheap 
talk, but it was the way we looked at it in those days. 

" I know," said Uncle Ed, " but how much better 
off are they when you sum it all up ? I claim that the 
man who goes fishing gets something that the man who 



. 



72 HOPE FARM NOTES 

built that stone wall never knew. Who piled up all 
that money in the big city? Some of mine is there. 
The interest I have paid on my mortgage has come into 
one of these big buildings for investment. The profit 
on many a box of oranges I shipped before the freeze 
never got away from New York. It stuck there and you 
can't get it out. And that's just what I mean. You 
fellows work your fingers stiff and make a little money, 
and then you put it into some bank or big company or 
into stocks or bonds. In the end it all gets away from 
you and runs down hill to that big city. The hired man 
took $25 to the county fair. Ten dollars of it went 
for beer and rum. The local saloonkeeper passed the 
$10 on to the wholesaler, he to the brewer and he sent 
part of it to Germany and the rest to Wall Street. The 
other $15 mostly went in chance games or petty gam- 
bling. He lost $5 betting that he could find the little 
red ball under the hat. The man who won his $5 lost 
it that night playing poker. The gambler who won it 
lost it a few nights later in a gambling house. The 
gambling house man bought bogus oil and mining stocks 
and lost it that way. The oil stock man had sense 
enough to salt it down in respectable securities, and 
there it is now under that bright sparkle in the big city. 
You and the rest of you do pretty much the same. This 
man who built your stone wall did it. The money he 
made was not invested here. If it had been you never 
could have bought this farm. It is off there under 
that bright sparkle — and the boys and girls run after it. 
You fellows work too hard! " 

I undertook to come back with that text about the 



UNCLE ED'S PHILOSOPHY 73 

man who provideth not for his family — but I never was 
good at remembering texts. That is probably because 
I do not study them as I ought to. But at any rate I 
undertook to argue that it is a man's first duty to provide 
for his family and also for his own " rainy day." " The 
night cometh, when no man can work" 

" Down where I live/' said Uncle Ed, " we don't 
have such rainy days as you do up here. Life is simple 
and straight and old people are cared for. We want 
them to live with us — we are not waiting for them to 
pass off and leave their money. Off in that big city 
where your money is turning over and over, thousands 
of human lives get under it and are crushed out of all 
shape. Down there under that sparkle only the poor 
know what neighbors are. Many a man lives his life in 
some tenement or apartment house never knowing or 
caring what goes on in the room on the other side of the 
wall. There may be joy or sorrow, death or life, virtue 
or crime. He doesn't know and he doesn't care, because 
this never-ending grind of work has changed sympathy 
into selfishness. And in the end that is what all those 
dollars which you folks dump into the big city come to. 
If the habit is so strong that you've got to work and try 
to catch up with the man who has a little more than you 
have, why not invest your money at home and in the 
farm ? Those fellows off under that sparkle will come 
chasing after your money if you invest it here, and you 
would be boss instead of servant ! Am I right ? " 

That was 16 years ago, and many things have hap- 
pened since then. Uncle Ed has passed away — after 
many troubles and misfortunes. The world has been 



74 HOPE FARM NOTES 

shaken up by the war and by great discoveries, so that 
we hardly know it. Yet there is a brighter sparkle 
than ever on the gilded roofs of the big city — greater 
wealth and more blinding poverty crouching beneath it. 
The hill where we hoed corn is now covered with big 
apple trees. Where then Bob and Jerry toiled slowly 
along with half a ton of fruit the truck now flashes down 
the hard, smooth road with two tons. But sitting on the 
old stone wall of a Sunday afternoon in late August 
I look across the valley and wonder how much there 
really is in Uncle Ed's philosophy after all. What do 
you think ? 



A GOD-EOKSAKEN PLACE 

James and William Hardy were twins — born and bred 
on a New Hampshire farm. The family dated far back 
to pioneer times, when John Hardy and Henry Graham, 
with their young wives, went into the wilderness as 
the advance guard of civilization. It came to be a com- 
mon understanding that a Hardy should always marry 
a Graham, and through four generations at least this 
family law had been observed until there had been de- 
veloped one of those fine, purebred New England 
families which represent just about the highest type of 
the American. As the father of these twins married 
a Graham girl you had a right to expect them to be as 
much alike as two peas in the family pod — both in 
appearance and in character. Here you surely might 
expect one of those cases where the twins are always 
being mixed up, when not even their mother could be 
sure which was Jim and which was Bill. In truth, 
however, the boys were distinctly different from the 
day they were born — different in size, in appearance 
and in character. 

These twins innocently brought to the surface a sad 
spot of family history which both the Grahams and the 
Hardys hoped had been buried too far down ever to 
show itself. Ear back in the French and Indian war 
a band of raiders from Canada burst out of the forest 
and carried off a dozen prisoners. Among them was 

75 



76 HOPE FARM NOTES 

the pride of the Graham family — a beautiful girl of 16. 
The settlers, hiding in their blockhouse, could only 
look on and see their relatives start on the long march to 
Canada. The next year some of these prisoners were 
ransomed, and came back to say that the girl had mar- 
ried a young Frenchman. She was happy, and sent 
word to her parents that she preferred to stay with 
her husband. Years went by, until one night there 
came to Henry Graham's house a Canadian ranger and 
a young girl. It was their granddaughter and her 
father. The mother had died and had begged her hus- 
band to take her daughter back to the old folks as her 
offering of love. The father delivered his message, 
bade his daughter farewell and silently vanished into 
the forest. They never saw him again, but they real- 
ized that he had given full measure of devotion to his 
dead wife. The girl grew up to be a beautiful creature 
much like her mother, only darker, and at times there 
was a bright glitter in her eyes. She married a Hardy 
and settled down as a farmer's wife. She was dutiful 
and kind, but sometimes her husband would see her 
standing at the door — looking off into the Northern 
forests with a look which made him shake his head. 
Years went by, and this spot on the family history had 
been forgotten until these twins uncovered it ! Their 
mother knew in her heart that the spirit of the restless 
Frenchman was watching her from the cradle through 
the black shiny eyes of her strange baby. James, the 
light-haired, steady, purebred infant, slept calmly or 
acted just as a good Hardy should, but the wild spirit 
of the forest had jumped three generations right into 



A GOD-FORSAKEN PLACE 77 

the cradle, where this black-haired little changeling 
stared at her! 

There never were two children more unlike than 
these twins. Jim was solid, sound, a little slow, but 
absolutely trustworthy — " a born Hardy " as they said. 
Bill was bright, quick, restless, full of plans and visions. 
He did not like to work, and had no respect for the 
family skeleton. This was a mortgage, which for many 
years had sunk its claws into the rocky little farm. 
The truth was that this farm never should have been 
cleared and settled. It was rocky and sandy; farther 
out of date than the old mill rotting unused by the old 
mill pond. The mortgage hung like a wolf at the back 
door, demanding its due, which came out of the little 
farm like blood money. Jim Hardy, like his father 
and grandfather, grew up to regard that mortgage as a 
fixed and sacred institution. It was a family heirloom 
or tradition — something like the old musket which an 
older Hardy carried at Bunker Hill, or like grand- 
mother's old spinning-wheel. As for the poor, rocky 
farm, Jim and his father would stay and grind them- 
selves away in a hopeless struggle just because the 
Hardys who went before them had done so. It was 
different with Bill. He had no use for the mortgage 
or for the rocky pastures, for the dash of French blood 
had put rubber, or yeast, into the covering of the stern 
New England thought. His father never could under- 
stand him and one day, when Bill was 17, the blood 
of the " changeling " burst into open mutiny. The 
father knew of only one way to act. He ordered the 
boy around behind the barn and took the horsewhip to 



78 HOPE FARM NOTES 

him. As a Hardy, Bill was expected to stand and take 
his punishment without a murmur. As the descendant 
of a wild forest ranger he could only resent the blows. 
What he did was to catch his father's arms and hold 
them like a vice. Neither spoke a word. They just 
looked at each other. The older man struggled, but he 
was powerless — he knew that his son was the master. 
He dropped the whip from his hand and bowed his head. 
The boy released him, broke the whip in two, and threw 
it away. The father walked to the house, a dazed and 
broken man. Bill watched him and then walked out to 
the back lot wiiere Jim, the steady and faithful, was 
building a fence. 

" Good-bye, Jim," he said. " I'm off. It had to 
come. I'm different, and yet the same, as you will see. 
You stay here and look after father and mother. I will 
help some day." It was the Hardy in both the boys 
which made it impossible for them to come any closer in 
feeling. Bill walked on over the pasture hill; at the 
top he paused to wave his hand. Then he was gone. 

Bill was clean and sound at heart, and the French 
blood had given him a quick active brain. Instead of 
striking for the wilderness he headed for New York 
and he prospered. The old French ancestor drove him 
on with tireless energy, and the long line of clean farm 
breeding kept him true to his purpose to go back some 
day and show the old folks that he was still a Hardy. 
Years passed, until one day there came to Bill an uncon- 
trollable longing to go home. Just a few brief, unre- 
sponsive letters had passed between him and Jim, but 
the time came when Bill longed with a great longing to 



A GOD-FORSAKEN PLACE 79 

see the old farm once more. And so, the next day, a 
well-dressed, prosperous man walked into the old yard 
and looked about him. There was Jim, the same old 
Jim, walking in from the barn with the night's milk. 
Father was cutting wood at the wood pile and mother 
stood at the kitchen door — just the same home picture 
which Bill knew so well. Bill did great things during 
his short stay. He paid that mortgage, ordered a new 
barn built and left capital for Jim to improve the farm. 
He did everything that a Hardy ought to do — and 
more — and yet he could not satisfy himself. It all 
seemed so small and narrow. He had hoped to find 
great music in the wind among the pines, but it filled 
him with a great loneliness, which he could not over- 
come. He had hoped to find peace and rest, but these 
were for the untried farm; boy — not for the restless and 
worried business man. It broke out of him at night on 
the second day, when he and Jim were on the pasture 
hill looking for the sheep. The loneliness of the early 
Fall day fairly entered his heart. 

et Jim/' he said, " old fellow, I don't see how you 
live in such a God-forsaken place! " 

" Why, Bill/' said Jim, " New York must be like 
Paradise to beat the old homestead." 

" Better a week on Broadway than a lifetime on these 
lonely hills." 

" I'd like to try it and see ! " said Jim. 

So Jim Hardy, the plain farmer, went to New 
York to visit Brother Bill. He had everything he could 
call for. Bill lived in a beautiful apartment, and he 
gave Jim a white card to see and do what he wanted. 



80 HOPE FARM NOTES 

Bill was too busy to go around much, but Jim made his 
way. For a couple of days it was fine- — then somehow 
Jim, just like Bill at the old farm, began to grow lone- 
some and oppressed. Right through the wall of Bill's 
apartment house was a family with one child. The jani- 
tor told him the child was sick, so Jim knocked at the 
door to sympathize with the neighbors. They froze him 
with a few words and got rid of him. He saw a man 
on the street and stopped to converse with him. " Get 
out ! " said the stranger. " You can't bunco me." Day 
after day Jim Hardy, the farmer, saw the fierce, selfish 
struggle for life in the big city. The great buildings, 
the theaters, Broadway at night — they were all splendid, 
but behind and under them lay the meanness, the selfish 
spirit, the lack of neighborly feeling, which galled the 
farmer to the heart. On the third night Bill took his 
brother to a great reception. Just as they walked into 
the brilliant room Jim glanced from the window and 
saw a policeman throw a weak and sickly man out of a 
public room where he was trying to get warm. 

" What did I tell you, Jim ? " said Bill. " Isn't this 
worth a year on your old hills ? " And Jim could only 
think of one thing to say: 

" Bill, old fellow , I don't see how you can live in such 
a Godrforsaken place ! " 

What do you make of it? One brother thinks God 
has forsaken the country, while the other says He has 
forsaken the city ! To me they prove that God is every- 
where. Some may not find Him, since they look for 
Him only in things which are agreeable to them, and 
those are rarely the places in which to look. I think, 



A GOD-FORSAKEN PLACE 81 

too, that, like Jim and Bill, all children come into the 
world with natural tendencies and inclinations which, if 
worthy, should be encouraged rather than repressed. 
Both Jim and Bill are needed in American life. 



LOUISE 

"How is Louise now?" 
" She seems a little better! " 

That message came over the 'phone on Friday evening, 
just as the members of the Hope Farm family were 
separating for the night. Early in the year we had a 
letter from a woman in the West who came back to 
the paper, after 15 years' absence. As a girl she 
lived in New York State. Father took the paper and 
she remembered the talks about the Bud, Scion and 
Graft. " What has become of those children ? " she 
asked. " Since I left home I have lost track of them. 
Now that I have a home and children of my own I 
would like to know what they came to." 

These were the names given to the four children of 
our first brood. We had one little girl of our own 
whom I called the Bud. Her mother did not want her 
brought up alone, so we took in a small boy — a little 
fellow of an uncertain age. We did not adopt him, but 
he was treated just like our own child, and " grew up " 
in our home. I called him the Seedling! A noted 
botanist argued with me to prove that these names should 
have been transposed — but I let them go, for we tried to 
graft good things upon the Seedling. Then came two 
other little ones — Mother's niece and nephew, needing 
home and protection. We took them in, and I called 

82 



LOUISE 83 

them Graft and Scion. These names may not have be- 
trayed any great knowledge of botany, but they seemed 
to fit the children, although as the little ones grew up 
we were glad to let those names drop. 

This quartette of little ones grew and thrived. It was 
at times rather hard sledding for the Hope Farmers in 
those early years, but youth greases the runners with 
hope, and kids never know the true taste of tough mut- 
ton. They grew on through sickness, the wilfulness of 
childhood, powers of heredity and all the things which 
confront common children. For they always seemed to 
me just kids of very common clay, though Mother 
would at times come back from places where other chil- 
dren " behaved " and say : " You must understand that 
we have some very superior youngsters ! " Of course I 
realized that the " Bud " would most likely be pretty 
much what her parents were, and it was a long-time 
hope that she would throw out our many undesirable 
qualities and concentrate upon the few good ones. Now 
comes our friend asking what has become of them — 
and I will try to answer for all ! The Bud is a senior 
at one of the great Women's Colleges ; the Graft is with 
an engineering party running a new railroad through 
the Arizona wilderness ; the Seedling is a captain in the 
Salvation Army — the Scion! ah! That is why I am 
writing this ! 

Louise grew up a small, rather delicate young woman, 
ambitious, clear-brained and with a quick, active mind. 
There came a time when greater family responsibilities 
came upon us all. Her father died, and her mother 
became hopelessly ill, and four younger brothers and 



84 HOPE FARM NOTES 

sisters came to us to form what we call our second brood. 
Even as a young girl Louise began to realize tbe stern 
responsibilities of life for those little ones. When she 
finished high school her ambition to be of service to this 
family group became fixed. She wanted to become self- 
supporting and to have a hand in helping with these 
younger children. Teaching is the great resource of 
educated women who are naturally fitted for the work, 
and Louise saw in the schoolroom her best chance for 
useful service. I think this was one of the rare cases 
where women are willing to work and prepare them- 
selves for true unselfish service. Louise was timid 
and naturally nervous — not strong or with great domi- 
nating power. I do not think any of us understood 
how much it really meant to her to face direct respon- 
sibility and force her way through. 

Mother and I have always felt that if any of our 
children show real, self-sacrificing desire for an educa- 
tion we will practise any form of needed self-denial that 
the child may be college-trained. For an education 
worked out in that way will become a glory and an 
honor to all who have to do with it. So we felt it no 
burden, but rather a privilege, to send Louise to the 
Normal School. How well and faithfully she worked 
no one can ever realize. I often think that most reputa- 
tions for bravery in this world are not fairly earned. 
Some strong, well-bred, naturally optimistic character, 
with health and heritage from a long line of dominat- 
ing ancestors pushes and smashes his way through ob- 
stacles and acquires a great reputation for courage. I 
think such are far less deserving than women like 



LOUISE 85 

Louise, small and delicate and nervous, who conquer 
natural timidity and force themselves to endure the 
battle. It is even harder to win confidence in yourself — 
to conquer the inside forces — than to fight the outside 
ones. 

Louise did this. She did it well, without boasting or 
great complaint and without flinching. At times she 
was depressed, for the task seemed too much for her, 
but she rose above it and won. She won honors at her 
school, and long before she expected it, on her own 
little, honest record in the schoolroom, she was em- 
ployed to teach at a good salary. It was to be only 
four miles from home — amid the best surroundings — 
and there was no happier woman on earth than was 
Louise when she wrote us the first news about it. It 
came just before Christmas. There are many women 
who could not see any cause for Christmas joy in the 
thought of long years of monotonous and wearying serv- 
ice, but Louise saw in this something of the joy of 
achievement, for through honest, trained labor, the out- 
come of her own patience and determination, she was to 
become self-supporting and a genuine help to the chil- 
dren. I presume no one but a conscientious and am- 
bitious woman can realize what that means. I know 
women who would look upon such power of self-support 
simply as selfish freedom. Louise saw in it the power 
of greater service. We have tried our best to train our 
children for that view of a life work. 

You may therefore imagine that the holidays at Hope 
Farm seemed like holy days indeed. They were all 
there except the Seedling and the Graft, and they sent 



86 HOPE FARM NOTES 

messages which left no regret, no sadness to creep in 
out of the past. Somehow I hope all yon older peo- 
ple may know before you pass on something of what 
Mother and I did about our two broods as the old year 
passed on. 

Yet there it comes again — the old question. I came 
home a little later than usual on Friday night. The 
night was wet and foggy, and Mother met me at the 
train. One of the little boys who usually comes for 
me had gone to meet Louise. Her first week of school 
was over, and she was coming home — a teacher! As 
we drove into the yard the family ran out to meet us — 
" Something has happened — they want you on the 
'phone at once ! " Ah ! but these country tragedies may 
flash upon us without warning. Halfway home Louise 
had been stricken desperately ill, and she now lay at 
the parsonage — three miles away — helpless. Just as 
quickly as fingers could put the harness on our fastest 
horse, Mother and " Cherry-top " were driving off into 
the fog and rain. We waited until they reached the 
parsonage and then we kept the 'phone busy. The poor 
girl, riding home after her first fine week in the school- 
room, had been stricken with an internal hemorrhage — 
and it was doubtful if she could rally ! At nine o'clock 
came the message : " She seems to be better." The 
little boys were coming home — and they soon appeared, 
white and troubled. Mother was to stay all night and 
she sent a hopeful message about coming in the morning 
with Louise. We went to bed to get strength and nerve 
for any emergency. In the early morning Mother 
walked into my room and turned up the light. We 



LOUISE 87 

looked at each other for a moment. Then there were 
six words : 

" How is Louise f " 

"She is gone!" 

We said nothing more, but we were both thinking the 
same thing! 

<e The first break in our big family has come. How 
is Louise now ? " 

There was no way of saving her. Human skill and 
human love had failed. She was dead ! 

It was a beautiful service. There were only our 
own family and perhaps a dozen friends. We all 
wanted it so. We do not like the wild grief and public 
curiosity so often displayed at large funerals. There 
was just a great bank of flowers, a white casket and a 
simple service over this brave and loyal girl. I do not 
say " poor " girl, nor do I dwell upon the sadness of it. 
I thought that all out as Mother and I sat at the head 
of the casket. She died gloriously — like a soldier at his 
duty. She died when life was young. She had just 
won her little battle in the great world of affairs. She 
died in the joy of victory and in the faith that all 
things are possible. The wine of life was full. She 
never knew the sting of defeat, the shame and mean- 
ness of false friendships and ambitions, which has come 
to those of us who linger on the way. And so at the end 
of it all I ask the old question once more : 

" How is Louise now % " 

" She is better ! Thank God! She is better ! " 



CHEISTMAS EVEEY DAY 

It is well enough to keep the Christmas tree standing 
until Spring cleaning at least. There may he those 
who open the closet door once a year and let the Christ- 
mas spirit out — somewhat like the family skeleton, to 
food and water — and then lock it up again. That does 
not suit me, for I would like to keep the door open so 
that Christmas may he with us every day in the year. 
The celebration just closed is about the best our family 
and community ever had, and it will do us permanent 
good. 

On Wednesday evening the children had their celebra- 
tion at the church. It was a cold clear night, with good 
sleighing, so we hitched the two big grays to the bob 
sled and filled the box with straw, and the children cud- 
dled down into this nest and pulled blankets over them. 
The Hope Farm man drove, with Mother on the seat 
beside him to direct the job and tell him when and 
where to turn out. Tom and Broker seemed to feel that 
they were, in their way, playing the part of reindeer, 
for they trotted off in great shape — a little clumsy on 
their feet, perhaps, but with strength enough to pull 
down a house. Broker is inclined to be lazy, and Tom 
did most of the pulling unless we stirred his partner up 
with the stick. Through the clear starlight we went 
crunching and jingling on over the hills and through 

88 



CHRISTMAS EVERY DAY 89 

the narrow level valleys, for our country has a badly 
wrinkled face. 

Part of the way lies through the woods, and then 
a stretch along the banks of a little river. There was 
just enough wind to make a little humming in the 
trees. Now and then a rabbit jumped out of the 
shadow and went hopping off across the snow. There 
was no danger — it was Christmas, and we do not carry 
firearms. I think I can tell you much about a person's 
character and circumstances if you will tell me what 
comes into mind on a lonely road, when the wind is 
playing its wild tunes among the trees. 

" Over the chimney the night wind sang, 
Chanting a melody no one knew." 

To some this melody brings sad memories or fear of 
trouble, but the happy group in our big sled heard noth- 
ing of these in the sound. As Tom and Broker pulled 
their load on beneath the trees I think each one of us 
heard in the wind's singing something of the song which 
the angels sang when the shepherds listened long years 
ago. This may be but a fancy of mine, yet I think our 
little group came nearer to understanding what Christ- 
mas means — on that lonely road — than we had before. 

You know how pleasant it is to come trotting along 
a country road on a cold starry night and see the lights 
of the church burst into view far ahead. Our church is 
an old stone structure, full of years and honorable his- 
tory. It was here, at least part of it, during the Revolu- 
tion, and at one time Hessian prisoners were confined 
in it. There were no prisoners except those of hope 



90 HOPE FARM NOTES 

inside the church that night. The boys ana I made Tom 
and Broker comfortable and then we went inside to find 
a big Christmas tree and a crowd of happy children. 
Surely Christmas is children's day, and they owned the 
church that night. Mother marshaled her big primary 
class for one chorus, and it seemed as if the entire end 
of the church was made of children. A couple of our 
Cherry-tops lent a little color to it. The Hope Farm man 
was escorted up to a front seat, where he was expected 
to look the part of prominent citizen. They ran him 
into the programme too for a Christmas story, so he 
got up and told the company about " Pete Shivershee's 
Miracle " — a little Christmas memory of life in a lum- 
ber camp many years ago. Finally the simple presents 
were distributed, the sleepy little ones aroused, good 
wishes spoken and we all piled in once more for the 
home trip. Broker takes life as it comes, but Tom 
was chilly and disposed to be a trifle gay over the 
prospect of barn and cornstalks once more. He pro- 
ceeded to pull the entire load, Broker trotting on with 
dangling traces ! It was a sleepy and happy crowd that 
finally turned off the road into Hope Farm. " We had 
a big time!" 

In two of the villages near us the people organized 
community Christmas trees. These trees were placed in 
the public square or some prominent spot, the electric 
wires were connected, and colored bulbs hung all over 
to take the place of candles. These were lighted on 
Christmas Eve and kept going all through the holiday 
week. It was a great success, for it brought people 
together, made a better community spirit, and helped us 



CHRISTMAS EVERY DAY 91 

all. In addition to this community tree arrangements 
were made to have singers go about the town singing 
the old Christmas carols. This revival of the old Eng- 
lish custom was a beautiful thing and a great success. 

Shortly after three on Christmas morning our folks 
were awakened by music. I think the Cherry-tops 
thought it was Santa Claus, as it probably was. Out in 
front of our house a motor car carrying six young men 
had turned in from the road. There in the frosty 
morning they were singing: 

" O come, all ye faithful, 
Joyful and triumphant, 
O come ye! O come ye 
To Bethlehem. 
Come and behold Him 
Born the King of angels, 
O come let us adore Him, 
O come let us adore Him, 
O come let us adore Him, 
Christ the Lord." 

They were beautiful singers and our folks will never 
forget that Christmas morning. 

" Silent night ! Holy night, 
All is calm. All is light. 
'Round young Virgin mother and child 
Holy infant so tender and mild, 
Sleep in heavenly peace." 

Finally the car started off, moving slowly down the 
road with the music creeping back to us through the 
clear air: 

" Hark, the Herald angels sing." 



92 HOPE FARM NOTES 

Our folks heard them at the next neighbor's, far 
down the road. I have no doubt many a weary and 
troubled soul waking in the night at the sound went 
back to happier dreams of a better tomorrow. It was 
a beautiful thing to do, and never before did Christmas 
morning come to us so happily as this year. 

I thought of these things all day, and the conviction 
has grown upon me that what we people who live in 
the country need more than anything else is something 
of this spirit which binds people together and holds 
them. We need it in our work, our play and in our 
battles. It is another name for patriotism, which means 
the unselfish love of country. The Duke of Wellington 
said the battle of Waterloo was won on the playgrounds 
of England, where boys were trained in manly sports. 
He told only half of it, for the spirit which turned 
that play into war came from the singers who in Eng- 
lish villages sang Christmas carols or English folk 
songs. In like manner the wonderful national spirit 
which the German nation has shown has been developed 
largely through the singing societies which have ex- 
pressed German feeling in song. In 1792 a band of 
Frenchmen marched from the south of France to Paris 
dragging cannon through a cloud of dust and singing the 
Marseillaise hymn, and even to this day the loyal spirit 
of France traces down from those dusty singers. Do 
I mean to say that farmers can come together and sing 
their troubles away ? No, for some of the troubles have 
grown so strong and penetrated so deep that they must 
be pulled out by the roots. W'hat I do say is that before 
we can hope to remove these troubles and make our 



CHRISTMAS EVERY DAY 93 

conditions what they should be we must feel toward our 
friends and neighbors the sentiments which are ex- 
pressed in these beautiful old songs. The time has 
gone by when we can hope to obtain what we should 
have from society as individuals playing a cold, selfish 
game of personal interest. We have tried that for 
many years and steadily lost out on it. The only 
hope for us now is in a true community spirit of loyalty 
and sacrifice, instead of the effort to get all we can for 
ourselves. That is why I say that there should be some- 
thing of Christmas in every day of the year, and why 
I give these holiday memories. 



« THE FINEST LESSON " 

It is the privilege of youth and old age to make com- 
parisons. One has little or nothing of experience to 
nse as a yardstick — the other has everything life can 
offer him. One compares with imagination, the other 
with fact, and youth, having a wider pasture for 
thought, usually finds pleasanter places for feeding. 
My children have spent nearly every Christmas thus 
far before this open fire, while I have ranged far and 
wide, from Florida to the Great Lakes, and from Cape 
Cod to Colorado. As we sit in silence before our fire 
the boys can imagine themselves in some hunter's camp, 
or with the soldiers in France, while the girls can drop 
themselves down from the wings of fancy in Cuba or 
Brazil. I might try that, but stern fact drags me down 
to other days, and old-time companions come creeping 
out of the past to say " Merry Christmas " and stand 
here, a little sorrowful that they cannot give the children 
something of their story. So I must be their spokes- 
man, it seems, and the children give me a chance when 
after dreaming a while they come and ask me to tell 
about the real Christmas. " What was the finest 
Christmas lesson you ever had ? " They do not put it 
in quite these words, but that is the sense of it. So 
there comes to me a great desire to live up to the highest 
test of story-telling — that is, so to interest your audience 
that they will forget to eat their apples, 

94 



"THE FINEST LESSON" 95 

The room seems full of the shadowy forms of men and 
women who have stepped out of the past to bring back 
a Christmas memory. Which of these old life teachers 
ever gave me the best lesson % They were all good — even 
that big fellow who tried to kick me out of a lumber 
camp — and failed — or that slimy little fraud who beat 
me out of a week's wages ! I think, however, that those 
two women over by the window lead all the rest. One 
is an old woman — evidently a cripple; the other 
younger — you cannot see her face in the dim light, but 
she stands by the older woman's chair. Yes, they repre- 
sent the best Christmas lesson I have had. So come up 
to the fire, forget the wind roaring outside, and listen to 
it. I was a hired man that Winter in a Western State. 
Some of the farmers who read this will remember me — 
not for any great skill I showed at farm work, but be- 
cause I spent my spare time (that meant nights) going 
around " speaking pieces." I am greatly afraid that as 
an agriculturist I did better work at keeping air hot 
than I ever did at heating plowshares through labor. 

You see, it was this way. I was a freshman at an 
agricultural college, at a time when these institutions 
were struggling hard to live. The average freshman 
thinks he is the salt of the earth, forgetting that he is 
salt which has not gained its savor through losing its 
freshness. A man gets very little salt in his character 
until he goes out and assaults the world ! At any rate, 
I had no money salted down and no fresh supplies com- 
ing in. I had to get out during the Winter and earn 
the price of another term at college. I tried canvass- 
ing for a book. We will draw the curtain down over 



96 HOPE FARM NOTES 

that act. Some men tell me of making small fortunes as 
book agents. From my experience I judge these men 
to be supermen or superior prevaricators, to put it 
mildly. I worked the job for all I was worth in spite 
of all obstacles, such as the wrath of farmers who had 
been cheated through signing papers, the laughter of 
pretty girls and the teeth of dogs, and sold four books 
in two weeks ! At last I struck a farmer who offered 
me a job digging a ditch. I made him a present of my 
" sample copy " and went to work. 

A dollar makes an interrogation point with a barb 
on it. About all a farm produced in Winter, those 
days, was enough to eat and drink and something to 
sell for the taxes. The farmer I worked for had a 
red colt that was to settle with the tax man, but just 
before the taxes were due the colt ran away and broke 
his neck. I cannot say that my labor was worth much, 
but education is not one of the few things which come to 
us without money or price. Then I suddenly made the 
discovery that I was " a talented young elocutionist." 
At least that is what the local paper stated, and do we 
not know that all we see in print must be true % I sup- 
pose I could tell you of one Christmas long ago that I 
spent as " supe " in a big theater and what befell us be- 
hind the scenes. At any rate, I could " speak pieces," 
and I had a long string of them in mind. So what was 
a rather poor mimic in a city became a " talented elo- 
cutionist " far back over muddy roads. You want to 
remember that this was a long time before the bicycle 
had grown away from the clumsy " velocipede." There 
were few, if any " good roads." ISTo one dreamed of 



" THE FINEST LESSON " 97 

gasoline engines or automobiles. During an open Win- 
ter the mud was 10 to 20 inches deep, and every mile 
of travel was to be multiplied by the number of inches 
of mud. Amid such surroundings it is not so hard 
to be known as a " talented elocutionist " when your 
voice is strong, your tongue limber, t your memory good, 
and you have had a chance to see and hear some of the 
great actors from behind the scenes. 

I made what they called " a big hit " at night, with 
audiences all the way from four or five up to 200. When 
life was dull and blue a neighbor would come with his 
family to our farmhouse and I would sit by the kitchen 
fire and entertain them. Once a farmer had a little 
trouble with his mother-in-law, who seemed to hold the 
mortgage. On his invitation I dropped in one night and 
a few of my " funny pieces " made this good lady laugh 
so that she forgave her son-in-law. Then I was called 
into the chamber of a very sick man to recite several 
" religious pieces. 77 I shall not soon forget that scene. 
The poor sick man lying there with eyes closed, the 
entire family and some of the neighbors grouped around 
like a company of mourners, and the " talented elo- 
cutionist 77 standing by the head of the bed in the gray 
light of the dying day. Yes, sir, the man recovered ! 
They have a famous saying here in JSTew York. " It 7 s 
a great life if you don 7 t weaken ! 77 I found it so that 
Winter, and as life was young and full ambition had not 
been severely wounded, I did not weaken. 

But all this, of course, was mere practice for larger 
occasions. Whenever I could work up a crowd I would 
go about to schoolhouses and churches, entertain as best 



98 HOPE FARM NOTES 

I could and then " pass the hat " ! What evenings they 
were ! They were usually in old-fashioned school- 
houses with the big iron stove in the center of the room. 
Such houses were rarely used at night, and there would 
be no light except as some of the audience brought 
lamps or candles. The room was usually crowded and 
the stove red-hot. In most cases the meeting would be 
opened with prayer and some local politician might 
make a speech. Then the " talented elocutionist " would 
stand up near the stove. He never was an " impressive 
figure " at his best. In those old days the best he 
could afford was a pair of thick cowhide boots, a second- 
hand coat which came from a long, thin man, and trou- 
sers evidently made originally for a fat man. Still, 
the light was dim and the speaker remembered hearing 
James E. Murdock say that if you could only put your- 
self into the spirit of your talk the audience would fol- 
low you there and forget how you looked. I had seen 
a great actor play the part of Fagin in " Oliver Twist/' 
and at these entertainments I tried giving an imitation 
of him, until a big husky farmer tried to whip me. I 
had a job to explain to my friends that he was trying to 
punch Fagin — not me. The audiences knew no middle 
ground. They wanted some burlesque or some tragedy of 
their own lives which would tear at their heartstrings. 
Now and then as I recited in those hot, dim school- 
houses the keen humor of the thing would come to me, 
or like a flash the poverty and pathos of my own strug- 
gle would sweep over me with overwhelming force. 
Then I could feel that audience moving with me and 
for a brief moment I got out of the ditch of life and 



"THE FINEST LESSON" 99 

knew the supreme joy of the complete mastery of 
one who can separate the human imagination from 
the flesh and compel it to walk with him where he 
wills. 

These moments were all too brief. Back we came 
finally to the dim, stifling room, and the rather ignoble 
and commonplace job of trying to measure the value of 
a thrill by a voluntary contribution. I have had many 
a high hope and many a dream of a new suit of clothes 
blackballed on " passing the hat." At first, when a man 
got up and said : " Gents, this show is worth a dollar, 
and I will pass the hat," I took him at his word and ex- 
pected a hat full of bills. Yet even when I shook out 
the lining I could find nothing larger than a dime. 
During that Winter I made a fine collection of buttons. 
It may be that most men want to keep the left hand 
from knowing what the right hand is up to, but evidently 
you must have one hand or the other under public obser- 
vation if you expect much out of the owner. I have 
learned to have no quarrel with human nature, and I 
imagine after all that the hire fitted the value of the 
laborer's efforts fairly well. 

Christmas came to us in that valley with the same 
beautiful message which was carried to all. It was a 
cold Christmas, and as we went about our chores be- 
fore day and at night the stars were brilliant. The 
crinkle of the ice and snow and the hum of the wind 
over the fences and through the trees came to me like the 
murmur of a faraway song. It touched us all. We 
saw each other in something of a new light of glory. 
The woman of the house, I think, regarded me as a sort 



100 HOPE FARM NOTES 

of awkward laired man. Now she seemed to see a boy, 
far from home, struggling with rather feeble hands 
against the flood which swept him away from the ambi- 
tion to earn an education. I am sure that it came to 
her that the Christmas spirit must be capitalized to help 
me on my way. So she organized a big gathering for 
Christmas Eve at which I was to " speak " and accept a 
donation. It was to be over in the next district, and 
that good woman took the sleigh and drove all over that 
county drumming up an " audience." I am sure that 
there never was a " star " before or since who had such 
an advance or advertising agent as I did on that occa- 
sion. She was a good trainer, too. The day before 
Christmas I husked corn in the cold barn, and this 
delicate woman ran through the snow with two hot 
biscuits and a piece of meat. There I worked through 
the day husking corn with my hands while I " re- 
hearsed " a few new ones with my brain and sent my 
heart way back to New England, where I knew the folks 
were thinking of me. 

In these times there would have been a fleet of auto- 
mobiles moored near the farmhouse, but in those days 
no engine had yet coughed out the gasoline in its throat. 
We came in sleighs and big farm " pungs." Standing 
by the barn in the clear moonlight you could see the 
lanterns gleaming along the road, and hear the tinkle of 
the sleighbells and the songs which the young people 
were singing. Far down the road came a big farm sled 
loaded with young people who were singing " Seeing 
Nellie Home." Sweet and clear came their fresh young 
voices through the crisp, frosty air: — 



" THE FINEST LESSON " 101 

" Her little hand was resting 
On my arm as light as foam 
When from Aunt Dinah's quilting party, 
I was seeing Nellie home. 

" I was seeing Nellie. I was seeing Nellie. 
I was seeing Nellie home, 
'Twas from Aunt Dinah's quilting party, 
I was seeing Nellie home." 

The old farmer on the front seat sat nodding his head 
to the music, and his wife beside him took her hand out 
of the muff and slid it under his arm. These were the 
fine old days of simple pleasures, when the country 
entertained itself and was satisfied. The other night 
my young folks took me off to a moving picture theater 
where we saw a great actress portraying human emo- 
tion in a way to make you shudder. My mind went 
back to my own feeble efforts as a star performer, and 
I was forced to admit that the usual Sunday school 
entertainment could have but a small chance in competi- 
tion with this powerful exhibition. The thing to do is to 
carry this strong attraction to the country and not force 
our young people to travel to the city after it. 

Each sleigh brought not only its load of human 
freight, but a big basket of food, for there was to be a 
feast of the body with food as well as of the spirit with 
oratory. As the guest of honor I rode over with one of 
the school trustees, and he proved a good local historian. 

" This farm we visit tonight is owned by the Widder 
Fairchild. A nice woman, but homely enough to stop 
a clock. Her father left her the farm, and she got to be 
quite an old maid. We all thought she had settled down 



102 HOPE FARM NOTES 

for such when she up and married the hired man, a nice 
man, but no farmer, and no property except a cough 
and an old aunt mighty nigh bed-ridden. Then the hus- 
band died and left the old lady on her hands. She 
might have sent the old thing to the poorhouse — ain't 
no kin of hers — but just because her husband promised 
to keep her, Mrs. Fairchild has kept the old lady on. 
There the two women live on one of the best farms in 
the county." 

" It's the best because the Lord has blessed it." That 
came from the wife on the back seat. She had tried to 
get in a word before. 

" ISTo, no ! Farms are made good by hard work and 
judgment. The minister went and talked to her about 
it, but all he got out of her was 'And Ruth said, En- 
treat me not to leave thee or to return from following 
after thee : for whither thou goest I will go.' " 

" But, Henry, ain't you 'shamed to call her homely ? " 

" No, because it's the truth. It wouldn't be about 
you, now, but I told the minister that once. He has to 
be diplomatic and he hemmed and hawed and finally 
said, ' She has a strong face.' He's right ! Mighty 
strong! " 

If you ever acted in the capacity of donatee at such a 
party you know the feeling. The big house was filled. 
Out in the kitchen the women sorted out the food 
and arranged it for supper. In the front room, beside 
a little table, sat " the hired man's old aunt," a beautiful 
old lady with white hair and a sweet, patient face. On 
the table stood a few house plants in pots. One gera- 
nium had opened a flower. 



" THE FINEST LESSON " 103 

" The only one in the neighborhood for Christmas," 
said the old lady. " You don't know how proud I am 
of it. It has been such a joy to me to see it slowly 
grow, and, oh, think of what it means to have it come at 
Christmas ! " 

But the donatee has little time for small talk. He 
always earns his donation, and whatever happened to it 
later, I earned it that night. They finally stopped me 
for supper. The minister alluded to it as " the bounte- 
ous repast which we are now asked to enjoy." My 
friend the trustee stood by the door and shouted : 

" Hoe in — help yourself ! " 

It was getting on toward Christmas Day when I stood 
up in the corner to end the entertainment. I had in- 
tended to end with Irwin KusselPs " Christmas Night 
in the Quarters," with negro dialect, but as I was about 
to start my eye fell upon a group by that little table. 
The " old aunt " sat looking at me, and by her side 
stood the " homely " woman, her hand resting upon the 
older woman's shoulder. I wonder if you have ever 
had a vision come to you at Christmas — or any other 
time ! A great, mysterious, beautiful vision, in which 
you look forward into the years and are given to see 
some great thing which is hidden from most men until 
too late. It came to me as I watched those women that 
the finest test of character, the noblest part of the Christ- 
mas spirit, was not the glory of caring for helpless child- 
hood, but the higher sacrifice of love and duty for the 
aged. 

And so, almost before I knew it, I found myself re- 
citing Will Carleton's poem, " Over the Hill to the 



104 HOPE FARM NOTES 

Poorhouse ! " What a sentiment to bring into a happy 
Christmas party — by the donatee at that — one who had 
been hired " to make them laugh " ! 

I knew it all, yet my mind jumped across the long 
miles and I thought of my own mother growing old and 
waiting in silence that I might have opportunity ! 

" Over the hill to the poorhouse 

I'm trudging my weary way. 
I a woman of sixty, 

Only a trifle gray, 
I who am smart and chipper. 

For all the years I've told, 
As many another woman 

Only one-half as old. 

" Over the hill to the poorhouse ! 

I can't quite make it clear; 
Over the hill to the poorhouse, 

It seems so horrid queer! 
Many's the journey I've taken, 

Traveling to and fro, 
But over the hill to the poorhouse 

I never once thought I'd go ! " 

It was a great 10 minutes. It is worth a good many 
years to have 600 ticks of the clock pass by like that. 
Could all of us have lived for 10 years with that 10- 
minute feeling — what a neighborhood that would have 
been. I was looking at those two women by the table. 
I saw their hands come together. It is true that the 
trustee had not done great injustice to her appearance, 
but as she stood there by " the hired man's old aunt " 
there came upon her face a beauty such as God alone 
can bring upon the face of those who are beloved by 
Him. A light from within illuminated her life story, 



"THE FINEST LESSON" 105 

and I could read it on her face. A love that endures 
after death — until life ! And when I stopped I was 
done. The power had all gone from me. Not so with 
my manager, the trustee. He could sense a psychologi- 
cal moment even if he could not spell it, and he got his 
hat into action before the rich spirit of that crowd could 
get to the poorhouse. I saw him coming with the hat 
full — there were surely several bills there. Say, did 
you ever spend money before you got your fingers on it ? 
I never have since that night. I know better. As I saw 
that money I figured on several Christmas presents, a 
new coat and a.t least one term at college. The trustee 
cleared his throat for a few remarks and I stood there 
pleasantly expectant, anticipating a few compliments — 
and the money. 

" JSTow, friends, we thank you one and all for your 
generous gift, and we thank our talented young friend 
here for the great assistance he has given us. He will 
rejoice when he learns the full amount, for, my dear 
friends, this money belongs to the Sunday school!" 

And he proceeded forthwith to gather up the money 
and stuff it into his pockets, leaving me with my mouth 
half open, and my hand half extended. 

What could you do ? There was a roar of protest 
from several farmers who demanded their money back, 
though they never got it. Happily the humor of it 
struck me. The first thing that came into my mind was 
an old song I had often heard : 

" Thou art so near and yet so far! " 

There is nothing like being a good sport, and so I 
bowed and smiled and took my medicine, although I am 



106 HOPE FARM NOTES 

sure the party would have ended in a fight if I had said 
the "word. But the " old aunt " looked at me for a mo- 
ment and then cut off that geranium bloom, tied two 
leaves on it and handed it to me without a word. And 
the woman with the shining face took my hand in both 
hers and said : " Do not get discouraged. I know you 
will win out." 

I rode home with a farmer who, with his two big 
sons, roared profanely at what they called the " injus- 
tice of that miser.' 7 They vowed to get up another dona- 
tion, which they did later. They offered to go and 
" lick the trustee " and take the money from him. I 
think they were a little disappointed when I told them 
that he needed it more than I did. 

" Why, from the way you talk, anybody 'd think you 
had fallen heir to a big thing ! " 

I had. That little flower in my pocket carried a 
Christmas spirit and a Christmas lesson that the whole 
world could not buy. The thing paying the largest 
dividend, the finest companion that ever walked with 
one along the roadway of life — unselfish love, and sacri- 
fice. 



" COLUMBUS DAY " 

I would like to know where you are tonight, and what 
you have been doing all through this " Liberty Day." 
With us the day has been cloudy and wet, and just as 
the sun went down Nature took the liberty of sending a 
cold, penetrating rain. So here I am before my big fire 
with a copy of Washington Irving's " Life of Christo- 
pher Columbus." That seems the proper way to end 
Columbus Day, for in trying to tell the children about 
him I found that I did not really know much more than 
they do about the great discoverer. So here I am back 
some 400 years in history wondering if any of these 
pompous and bigoted ways of seeking for new worlds or 
new methods can be applied to modern life in New 
Jersey. 

My back aches, for I have been digging potatoes all 
day — and I thought I had graduated from that job some 
years ago. Perhaps you will say that we should have 
been out selling Liberty bonds or parading. Personally, 
I am a poor salesman, and we all subscribed for our 
bonds some days ago. There are eight bondholders in 
this family. The influenza has left us without labor 
except for the children while the school is closed. There 
are still over 100 barrels of apples to pick, potatoes to 
dig, plowing and seeding to be done, and a dozen other 
jobs all pressing. So I decided to celebrate Liberty Day 
by digging those Bible School potatoes. We planted a 

107 



108 HOPE FARM NOTES 

patch of potatoes between rows of young peach trees 
and promised the crop to the Bible Teachers' Training 
School. Last year we tried this, and I put in a few of 
the latest scientific touches which the experts told us 
about. The plant lice came in a swarm and ruined the 
patch. We had a few potatoes about the size of marbles. 
This year we avoided scientific advice, and just planted 
potatoes in the old-fashioned way. They were not cul- 
tivated in the best possible manner, but they made a 
good crop. So when Liberty Day dawned with a thick, 
gray mist over the land I decided to get those potatoes 
out instead of going on the march or singing " The Star 
Spangled Banner." From what I read of Columbus I 
imagine he would have chosen the parade and left the 
digging to others. The world has taken on new ideas 
about labor since then. 

So, after breakfast, Cherry-top and I took our forks 
and started digging. The soil was damp and the air 
full of mist and meanness which made me sneeze and 
cough as we worked on. Happily, out on our hills we 
are not fined $20 for sneezing outside of a handkerchief, 
as is the case in New York. If anyone has discovered 
any poetry or philosophy in the job of digging potatoes 
he may have the floor. I call it about the most menial 
job on the farm, and therefore fine discipline for " Lib- 
erty Day." While we were working Philip and the 
larger boy went by with the team to seed rye. They 
have thrashed out enough grain by hand, and this is not 
only ideal weather, but about the last limit for seeding. 
The land was plowed some two weeks ago, a big crop 
of ragweed and grass being turned under. If we only 



" COLUMBUS DAY " 109 

had the labor this ground would have been disked twice 
and then harrowed. As it is, we can only work it once 
with the spring-tooth. Then Philip goes ahead seeding 
in the rye by hand, while the boy follows with the Acme 
harrow to cover the grain. It is rough seeding and 
would not answer for wheat, but rye is tough and en- 
during, and it will imitate Columbus and discover a 
new world in that decaying mass of ragweed. So I 
watch the seed sowers travel slowly along the hillside as 
I dig, and wonder what was doing on this farm 427 
years ago, and what will be doing here 100 years hence ! 
Such reflections were the most cheerful mental accom- 
paniment I could find for digging potatoes. They are 
impractical, while digging is the most practical thing on 
earth ! 

As we dug on a man and woman came up the lane. 
They came after apples, having engaged them before. 
The boy went down to attend to them, while I kept on 
digging. Then the boy came back with two more apple 
customers. The trouble with us is that we have more 
customers than apples this year, but these were old 
patrons, and they were served. The boy finally came 
back with $41.80 as a result of his trading, and we went 
at our job with new vigor. As we dug along we noticed 
a curious thing about those potatoes. Here and there 
was a vine large and strong, and still perfectly green. 
The great majority of the hills were dead, but those 
green ones were as vigorous as they were in June. The 
variety was Green Mountain, and we soon found that 
on the average these big green vines were producing 
twice as much as the dead hills. Some of these living 



110 HOPE FARM NOTES 

vines carried three or four big potatoes. Others had a 
dozen, with seven or eight of market size, while others 
had about 16 tubers, mostly small. Just why these 
vines should act in this way I do not know. There are 
so many possible reasons that I should have to guess 
at it, as Columbus did when ; as his ship sailed on and 
on into the west, the compass began to vary. The boy 
and I decided that here was where we might discover a 
good strain of Green Mountain on Columbus Day. So 
we have selected 15 of the best hills. They will be 
planted, hill by hill, next year and still further selec- 
tion made. We discarded the hills with only a few big 
potatoes and also those with many small ones, and 
selected those with a good number of medium-sized 
tubers. It may come to nothing, but we will try it. 
Experience and careful figures show that an ordinary 
crop of potatoes in this country does not pay. The 
same is true of a flock of ordinary poultry, or a drove 
of scrub pigs. There is no profit except in well-bred, 
selected stock. That's what we think we have in pigs 
and poultry — perhaps we may get something of the 
same thing in potatoes. 

But there is one sure thing about digging potatoes — 
you work up a great appetite. At noon there came a 
most welcome parade up the lane. It was not a woman 
suffrage procession, but Mother, Aunt Eleanor, Rose 
and the little girls bringing the picnic dinner in baskets 
and pails. The boy had built a fire up above the spring 
and piled stones up around it. By the time I had 
washed my hands and face in the brook Mother had a 
frying pan over this fire with slices of bacon sizzling and 



" COLUMBUS DAY " 111 

giving up their fat When this bacon was brown the 
slices were taken out and the fat kept on bubbling and 
dancing. Then Aunt Eleanor cut up slices of Baldwin 
apples and dropped them into this fat. They tell me 
Ben Davis is best for this fried-apple performance, but 
I found no fault with Baldwin as it jumped out of that 
fat. The chemist will no doubt explain how the bacon 
fat combined with the acid of the apple, etc., etc., etc. 
Let him talk ; it does him good — but have another fried 
apple ! Men may come and men may go, but they will 
seldom find more appetizing food or a more perfect bal- 
anced ration than the Hope Farmers discovered around 
that fire. There were bread and butter, fried bacon, 
fried apple, pot cheese and several of our choice Red 
hen's eggs boiled hard and chopped fine with a little 
onion. Of course, eggs are worth good and great money 
just now, but nothing is too good for an occasion like 
this. And so, on that cheerless day, sitting around our 
fire, we all concluded that Columbus did a great thing 
when he discovered America. 

But our job was not to be ended by eating fried 
apples and bacon, pleasant as that occupation is, and 
when I put out my hand I was obliged to admit that the 
first faint evidence of rain was beginning. The larger 
boy went back to his rye seeding, and very soon Tom and 
Broker could be seen on the lower farm pounding back 
and forth over the field like gray giants hauling up 
the guns. All hands went to picking up potatoes. 
Mother picked two bushels and then had to go back to 
her housework. Little Rose claimed that she picked up 
20 potatoes. Her chief job was to hold on to her throat 



112 HOPE FARM NOTES 

and ask if it was not time to eat one more of those 
sweet throat tablets I had in my pocket. The rain 
slowly developed from mist to good-sized drops. I know 
what it means to get wet, and in any other cause I 
would have left the job, but we were there to finish those 
potatoes, and we stayed by it until they were all picked 
up. The last barrel or two came up out of the mud, and 
our hands and feet were surely plastered with common 
clay — but we finished our job. Then came the boys 
with Broker and the fruit wagon to carry the crop to 
the barn. One of these boys had on a rubber coat — 
the other a sack over his shoulders. They went on up 
the hill to get a load of apples and on their way back 
brought down the Bible potatoes, where they will dry 
out and be ready for delivery. When we got to the 
barn there was another party after apples. 

We finished it all at last, dried off before the fire and 
found ourselves none the worse for the day. In the 
present condition of my back I would not from choice 
go to a dance tonight, but that will limber out in time. 
The fire roars away, the rain taps at the window, and' 
we are safe and warm. We have had our supper, and 
I suppose I could tell where Aunt Eleanor has hidden 
a pan of those famous ginger cookies. I will make it a 
one to five chance that I can also find a pan of baked 
apples. I think I will not reveal the secret publicly 
at this time. The Food Administrator might accuse her 
of using too much ginger or sweetening! School has 
been closed on account of the influenza, but the children 
are still working their " examples," and I give them a 
few original sums to work out. Little Rose listens 



"COLUMBUS DAY" 113 

to all this, and finally proposes this one of her own : 

" If a woman paid three cents at a hospital for a 
baby, how much would a horse cost ? " 

Personally, I will give that up, and go back to the 
" Life of Columbus." The most interesting thing to 
me is the account of the council of wise men to whom 
Columbus tried to explain his theories. They told him 
that since the old philosophers and wise men had not 
discovered any new world, it was great presumption for 
an ordinary man to claim that there remained any great 
discovery for him to make. Seems to me I have heard 
that same argument ever since I was able to read and 
understand. Perhaps it is well that all who come, like 
Columbus, with a theory and vision of new worlds must 
fight and endure and suffer before the slow and preju- 
diced public will give them a chance. But here comes 
a message for me to come upstairs and see a strange 
thing. Little Rose cannot have her own way, and she 
has gone into a passion altogether too big for her little 
frame. She will not even let me come near her, and 
back I come a little sadly to my book and my fire. They 
are not quite so satisfying as before. But who comes 
here ? It is Mother carrying a very pink and repentant 
morsel of humanity — little Rose. She hunts up my elec- 
tric hearing device and with the ear piece at my ear I 
hear a trembly little voice saying: 

" Fs awful sorry ! " 

And that is a fine ending for Liberty Day. Perhaps, 
like Columbus on that fateful night at the end of his 
voyage, this little one sees the first faint light of a new 
world! Who knows? 



THE COMMENCEMENT 

You could hardly have crowded another human into 
the great hall. Erom the gowned and decorated dig- 
nitaries on the stage to the great orchestra in the upper 
gallery every square foot of floor space was packed, as 
the president of the great woman's college arose to open 
the commencement exercises. This followed one of the 
most impressive scenes I have ever witnessed. The 
great audience had been waiting long beyond the ap- 
pointed time for starting, when suddenly the orchestra 
started a slow and stately march and we all rose. A 
dignified woman in cap and gown, with soft gray hair, 
marched slowly up the aisle ; and following her came 
long lines of " sweet girl graduates," as Tennyson puts 
it. The woman walked to the steps which led to the 
stage, and standing there reviewed the long lines of girls 
as they filed silently in and occupied the seats reserved 
for them. In their black gowns and white bands they 
seemed, as they were, a trained and steadfast army. As 
they seated themselves and rose again it seemed like the 
swelling of a great ocean tide. And following them 
came men and women who had gained distinction in edu- 
cation or public life. They, too, were in cap and gown, 
with bands of red, purple, white, green or" brown, to 
designate their college or their studies. The bright sun- 
shine flooded in at the open windows. Outside, the 
beautiful green college campus stretched away in gently 

114 



THE COMMENCEMENT 115 

rolling mounds and , little valleys. I noticed a robin 
perched on a tree with his head on one side, calmly 
viewing the great professor who with the bright red 
band across his breast was delivering the address. Very 
likely this wise bird was saying, " You should not be 
too proud of that dash of red on your gown. There are 
others ! Your red badge is man made. It will not 
appear on your children, and it may even be taken from 
you. The red on my breast is a finger-print of Nature, 
and cannot be removed." 

I know that there are those who would call this im- 
pressive service mere pomp and vain parade, yet, to the 
plain man and woman sitting in the front row of the 
balcony, it all seemed a noble part of a great proceeding, 
and a great pride for them. Just where the balcony 
curved around like a horseshoe this gray-haired couple 
sat — just like hundreds of other men and women who, in 
other places, with strange thought in mind, were watch- 
ing their boys and girls pass out of training into the race 
of life. The Hope Farm man is supposed to be a 
farmer, and " as the husband so the wife is." He 
worked out as hired man for some years and otherwise 
qualified for the position, while Mother probably never 
saw a working farm before she was married. But at 
any rate there they were — like the hundreds of other 
plain men and women, while down below them the best 
work of their lives was coming to fruition. For the 
daughter was part of that army in cap and gown and 
was about to receive her certificate of education ! 

To me one of the most interesting characters in the 
universe is " the hen with one chicken" ! These women 



116 HOPE FARM NOTES 

with one child of their own! Having added just one 
volume to the book of life it is their duty and privi- 
lege to regard it as a masterpiece. "When you come to 
think of it, what a day, what a moment, that must have 
been for a woman like Mother. Here was her only 
child, a girl who, from the cradle, had never given her 
a moment's uneasiness or a single lapse of confidence, 
now standing up big and straight and fine to take her 
college degree. It had been the dream of Mother's girl- 
hood to go through this same great college, but that 
had been denied her. Yet the years had swung around 
in their relentless march and here was her daughter, 
big, trained, fine and unspoiled, making noble use of the 
opportunity which failed to knock at her mother's door ! 
Many of you women who read this will know that there 
can be no prouder moment in a woman's life. Is it 
any wonder that there was a very suspicious moisture 
on Mother's glasses as the minister read the 25th chapter 
of St. Matthew? 

e£ And I was afraid and went and hid thy talent in 
the earth" 

Would you not, as she did, have sung with all your 
power when that great audience rose like a mighty wave 
to sing " The Star Spangled Banner " ? The members 
of the orchestra stood up to play the tune. As you 
know, a group of musicians will usually show a large 
proportion of European faces, but all these markings of 
foreign blood faded away as they played, and there came 
upon each countenance the light of what we call 
Americanism. 

But what about " father " at such a time and place ? 



THE COMMENCEMENT 117 

Where does he come in ? At a woman's college he stays 
ouk — he is a mere incident, and properly so. If he is 
wise he will accept the situation. For this big girl 
marching in line has his shoulders and head ; she walks 
as he does, and people are kind enough to remark, a How 
much your daughter looks like you ! " Now this is no 
fly in the ointment of Mother's pride and joy, unless 
you refer to it too much. Far better take a back seat 
and let the good lady take full pride in her daughter. 
I confess that when those 200 girls sat together at the 
front of the room, all in cap and gown, and most of 
them with their hair arranged alike, I could not be sure 
of my own girl until her name was called ! My mind 
was back in the years busy with many memories. More 
than a full generation ago at an agricultural college I 
walked up to receive my " certificate." I remember 
that I had on some clothes which had been discarded 
by two other men. I played the part of tailor to clean 
and press them into service. There were no be-gowned 
and decorated dignitaries on the platform — just a few 
farmers, several of them right out of the harvest field. 
I remember how two of these tired men fell asleep 
through our class " orations." I had in my pocket just 
enough money to get me to a farm where I had agreed 
to cut corn. And this proud and happy lady beside me ! 
At just about the same time she was graduating from a 
normal college at the South. She was then a mere 
slip of a pretty girl, not out of her 'teens, with a plain 
white dress and a bright ribbon, and no " graduation 
present " but the bare price of a ticket home. And 
within a few weeks she was off, giving the acid test to 



118 HOPE FARM NOTES 

her certificate of education by teaching school in Texas ! 
What a world it all is anyway ! The years had ironed 
out the rather poor scientific farmer and the smart 
girl teacher into the parents of this young woman who, 
as we fondly hope, has adopted the good qualities of 
both sides of the house and cast out the poor ones. A 
great world, certainly a good world, and probably a wise 
one! 

The orator of the day made an impressive speech. He 
made a powerful comparison between Croesus, the rich 
Persian king, and Leonidas, the Greek hero. Then he 
compared the life of the Emperor Tiberius with that 
of Jesus. It was a powerful plea for a life of service — 
for making full use of training and culture. I saw 
my old friend the robin on his perch outside regarding 
the orator critically. I take him to be one of these ex- 
ponents of a " practical " education. Very likely he 
was saying: 

" Very fine ! Very fine ! ' Words, my lord, words.' 
But if I had a daughter I would want more of house- 
keeping and practical homemaking in her education. 
With all your culture and literature you cannot build a 
house as my daughter can. You cannot tell when it is 
time to go South, as we can, nor can you defend your- 
self against enemies as we are able to do. All very fine, 
no doubt, for human beings, but if birds were educated 
with any such ideas the race would be extinct in three 
generations. Reading, writing and housekeeping are 
the only things that women need to know." 

I have heard human robins talk in just exactly that 
way, and for many years the world listened to them and 



THE COMMENCEMENT 119 

believed what they said. Their talk was about like the 
song of the robin, only not 10 per cent as musical. 
They were opposed to the " educated " woman, and most 
of all to the woman's college. There are still some of 
these pessimists left. I thought of one in particular 
as one by one those girls stood up to receive their 
diplomas — and the robin flew away in disgust. Woman 
can never again be set aside as a slave or underling or 
inferior partner of man. She has a right to the best 
there is in life. Some of those who read this will say, 
" What will become of farming if our country women 
get the idea that they are entitled to education and cul- 
ture, as others are % " Farming will be better off than 
ever before, because when our women get this idea firmly 
in mind we shall all proceed to demand the things which 
will enable us to give opportunity to every country girl. 
Of all the wonderful changes in the past 25 years, 
few have been so remarkable as the growth of oppor- 
tunity for women. The full ballot is now to be given 
them, and the war opened many a door of industry. 
Those doors cannot be shut. They have lost their hinges. 
A new element is coming into business and political 
life. I do not think we need new development of science 
or mechanical skill half as much as we need vision, 
poetry and the finer imagination. It must be said that 
while man alone has done wonders in developing ma- 
terial power he has failed to combine it with spiritual 
power. That is what we need today more than any- 
thing else, and I think the finely educated women are 
to bring it. I was thinking about this all through that 
great day. Suppose my daughter and the 200 other 



120 HOPE FARM NOTES 

graduates had all been trained as lawyers, doctors, busi- 
ness women, etc.; would they really benefit the world 
more than they will now do with broad, strong culture 
and with minds stored with the best that literature can 
give them ? I doubt it. No matter what they may do 
hereafter, their lives and their influence will be strong 
for this sort of training. I can hardly think of any 
better missionary to go into a country neighborhood to 
live than one of these hopeful, trained and useful young 
women. Mother selected the college for her daughter 
before that young person was out of her cradle. I 
thought some more practical training would be better, 
but I never had a chance to argue. I now conclude that 
Mother was right. She knew what she was doing, and 
evidently sized up the spirit of her own flesh and blood. 
If you ask me what I think is the finest thing about a 
college education I can quickly tell you. It is having a 
son or daughter go through a great college with credit 
and come out wholly unspoiled by the process. It seems 
to me that most people use the college as a trading place 
in life. They bring away from it knowledge and cul- 
ture, but they leave behind too much of youth, too much 
of the plain home life, too much of the simple, homely, 
kindly things which the world needs and longs for. So 
that we may all pardon Mother her pride and satis- 
faction as she looks down upon this big girl in cap and 
gown and knows that her daughter has mastered the 
course at a great college and still remains her daughter, 
with a sane and fine understanding of her relations to 
the home and to society. 

Ideals are what count. One of, the most beautiful 



THE COMMENCEMENT 121 

ceremonies of this commencement was the placing of 
the laurel chain. The senior class, dressed in white, 
marched to the grave where lies the founder of the 
college, carrying a great chain or wreath of laurel. 
While the students sang, these seniors draped the laurel 
around the little fence which enclosed the grave. It 
was as if the youngest daughter of the college had come 
to pay reverence to the founder. A beautiful ceremony, 
and after it was over I went back and copied the in- 
scription on one side of the little monument. I have 
seen nothing finer as a message to educated youth. 

" There is nothing in the universe that I fear but 
that I shall not know all my duty or shall fail to do it." 



" OEGANIZATION " 

The other day a city man came to the farm after apples. 
He loaded up his car and, rendered good-natured by 
eating three mellow Baldwins, he proceeded to tell us 
where farmers were behind the times. It is a pleasure 
for many city men to do this and the average farmer 
good-naturedly listens, always glad to have his customers , 
enjoy themselves. This man said he wondered why 
farmers have never organized properly so as to defend 
and control their business. It is quite easy for a man 
of large affairs to see what could be done if all the 
farmers could get together in a great business organi- 
zation. 

" The trouble with you folks is that you don't know 
how to do team work/' said my city friend. " Suppose 
there are twelve million farmers in the country. Sup- 
pose they all joined and organized and pledged by all 
they hold sacred to each put up $5.00 every month as a 
working fund. Suppose they hired the greatest organiz- 
ing brain in the country and instructed its owner and 
carrier to go to it. It would simply mean world con- 
trol by the most patient and deserving class on earth. 
Why don't you do it?" 

That's the way your city business man talks, and he 
cannot understand why our farmers do not promptly 
carry out the plan. Of course that word "suppose" 
takes the bottom out of most facts, but it is hard for 

122 



" ORGANIZATION " 123 

the business man to realize why farmers have not been 
able to do full team work. This man said that large 
business enterprises in the city were controlled by 
boards of directors. There might be men on the board 
who personally hated each other with all the intensity 
of business hatred. Yet when it came to a matter of 
business policy for the company they all got together 
and put the proposition through. He said it was differ- 
ent with a farmer, who if he had trouble with his neigh- 
bor over a line fence would not under any circumstances 
vote for him even if he stood for a sound business 
proposition. 

That is the way many of these city men feel. It is 
largely a matter of ignorance through not understanding 
country conditions. Those of us who spend our lives 
among the hills can readily understand why it is hard 
for a farmer to surrender a large share of his indi- 
viduality and put it into the contribution box of society. 
Many of us, I fear, would dodge or cheat the contribu- 
tion box in church unless we felt we were under the watch- 
ful eye of our wives. Possibly we shall contribute more 
freely to society now that our wives and daughters have 
the privilege of voting. When a man has lived his life 
among brick and stone with ancestors who have been 
constantly warned to " keep off the grass " he comes to 
be incapable of understanding what is probably the 
greatest problem of American society. That is the 
effort to keep our country people contented and feeling 
that they are getting a fair share of life, so that they 
will continue cheerfully to feed and clothe the world. 
You cannot convince a man unless you can understand 



124 HOPE FARM NOTES 

his language or read his thought. One of the worst mis- 
fortunes of the present day is the fact that city and 
country have grown apart, so that they have no common 
language. 

Those of us who live close to Nature realize that in 
order to know the truth we must find 

" Tongues in trees, Books in running Brooks, 
Sermons in stones, and good in everything." 

The trouble with the city man is that he has been 
denied the blessed privilege of studying that way. 
Therefore, if you would make him know why in the 
past it has been so difficult for farmers to organize 
thoroughly you must go to the primary motives of life 
and not to the high school. 

When our first brood of children were small, I 
thought it well to give them an early lesson in organi- 
zation. There were four children, and as Spring came 
upon us there was a great desire to start a garden. So 
we proceeded in the most orderly manner to organize the 
Hope Farm Garden Association. We had a constitu- 
tion and full set of rules and by-laws. These stated the 
full duties of all the officers, but somehow we forgot to 
provide for the plain laborers. The largest boy was 
President and the smaller boy was Vice-President. My 
little girl was Secretary, and the other girl Treasurer. 
It was an ideal arrangement, for each one held an im- 
portant office, and all were directors. I had a piece of 
land plowed and harrowed. I bought seeds and tools 
and the Association voted to start the garden at once. 
They started under directions of the President and I 



" ORGANIZATION " 125 

went up the hill to work in the orchard. It proved 
to be a case where the controlling director should have 
remained on the job. Halfway up the hill I glanced 
back and saw the Hope Farm Garden Association headed 
for the rocks. The President and Vice-President were 
fighting and the Treasurer and Secretary were crying. 
No one was working except the black hen, and she was 
industriously eating up the seeds. 

I came back to save the Association if possible and 
the Secretary ran to meet me with the minutes of the 
meeting on her cheeks. Her hands had been in the soil 
and she had succeeded in transferring a portion of it 
to her face. Through this deposit the tears had forced 
their way in a track as crooked as the course of the 
Delaware River, in its effort to carve the outline of 
a human face on the western coast of New Jersey. 
The poor little Secretary came up the lane with the 
old industrial cry which has come down to us out of the 
ages, tearing apart the efforts of men to combine and 
improve their condition. 

" Oh! Father, don't the President have to work?" 
The minutes of the meeting clearly revealed the trou- 
ble. It seemed that the President of the Association 
made the broad claim that his duty consisted simply in 
being President. There was nothing in the constitu- 
tion about his working. Of course, a dignified Presi- 
dent could not perform manual labor. The Secretary 
followed with the claim that her duty was to write in 
a book; how could she do that if she worked? Then 
came the Treasurer proving by the by-laws that her duty 
was to hold the money; if she tried to work at the same 



126 HOPE FARM NOTES 

time she might lose the cash. So naturally she could not 
work. Thus it happened that there was no laborer left 
except the Vice-President. He had resigned and the 
President was trying to accept his resignation in italics. 

These were the same children who had settled a de- 
bate on the previous Sunday afternoon. The question 
was whether they would rather have the minister read 
his sermon or talk off-hand. The vote was 3 to 1 in 
favor of having him read it. The prevailing argument 
was that when the minister read his sermon he knew 
when he got through. The one negative vote was passed 
on the hope that when he talked off-hand he might 
be a little off-head, forget one or two pages and thus 
get through sooner. You may learn from that one 
reason why it has been so hard in the past for certain 
farmers to organize. 

And one reason why there has grown up an indus- 
trial advantage in the town and city may perhaps be 
learned from another sermon in stones. Some years ago 
we had two boys on the farm. Largely in order to 
keep them busy their mother made a bargain with 
them to wash windows. They were to be paid so much 
for each window properly cleaned. Of course their 
mother supposed that the work would be done in the 
good old-fashioned way of scrubbing the glass by hand 
with a wet cloth. The object was more to keep them 
busy than to have any skilled work performed. One 
boy was a patient plodding character who did not object 
seriously to hand labor. He took a cloth and a pail of 
hot water and slowly and carefully rubbed off the glass 
in the old-fashioned way. The other boy never did like 



" ORGANIZATION " 127 

to work and after some thought he went to the neighbor's 
and borrowed a small hand-pump with a hose and fine 
nozzle. He filled this with hot water with the soap dis- 
solved in it and sprayed his windows with the hot mix- 
ture. He got them just as clean as the other boy did, 
but he did three windows while his companion was doing 
one. Then there arose an argument as to whether this 
boy with the pump should be paid the same price per 
window as the other boy who did the work by hand. 
These boys both went to the Sunday school and the 
boy with the pump was able to refer to the parable of 
the man who hired the workmen at different hours 
during the day. When they came to settle up the men 
who had worked all day grumbled because they got no 
more than the men who had worked half a day. The 
answer of the boss applied to this window washing. 
" Did I not agree with thee for a penny ? " 

Now in a way the city man with his advantage in 
labor is not unlike the boy with the pump. The city 
workman has been able to take advantage of many in- 
dustrial developments of much machinery which has 
not yet reached the country. Some day there will be 
an adjustment and then the countryman will have his 
inning. 

Some years ago I spent the night with a farmer far 
back in a country neighborhood. After supper he de- 
scribed in great detail a plan he had evolved for organiz- 
ing all American farmers in one great and powerful 
body. His plan was complete and he had worked out 
every detail except one which he did not seem to think 
essential. I looked out of the window through the dark 



128 HOPE FARM NOTES 

night and saw a light far down the road. Some neigh- 
bor was at home. I thought it a good time for action. 

" There/' I said, " is a chance to start this big 
scheme of yours. Down the road I see the light from 
your neighbor's window. Put on your hat, take the 
hired man and your boys and we will go right down 
there and organize the first chapter of this organization. 
No time like the present." 

The farmer's face clouded. " Why, I haven't spoken 
to that man for three years. He would not keep up the 
line fence and I had to go to law and make him do it." 

I looked out of the window once more and saw another 
light to the north of us dimly visible in the darkness. 
" Well, then let us go to this other neighbor. I saw 
several men there as I came by." 

" That man ! I wouldn't trust him with fifty cents, 
and he would be sure to elect himself Treasurer." 

" Well, far across the pasture I see still another light. 
Shall we go there?" 

" ]STo, that man doesn't know enough to go in the 
house when it rains." 

The farmer's wife looked up from her sewing as if to 
speak, but the man answered for her. 

" Oh, the women meet at the sewing circle and church, 
and while they talk about each other they keep together 
and do things for the neighborhood, but somehow the 
men folks don't get on." 

Yet here was a man who planned to bring all the 
farmers of the country together and yet could not 
organize his own neighborhood, because men were kept 
apart by little prejudices and fancied wrongs. The 



" ORGANIZATION " 129 

women combined because they knew enough to realize 
that these petty things were non-essential, while the 
great community things could only be remembered by 
forgetting the meanness of every-day life. 

Your city men will smile at this sermon in stones, 
and say that those farmers never can forget their dif- 
ferences and organize. Yet city life is worse yet. 
Many a man lives for years within a foot of his neigh- 
bor, yet never knows him. There may be only a brick 
wall between the two families, yet they might as well 
be 10 miles apart, so far as any community feeling is 
concerned. If dwellers on any block in the city could 
combine as a renting or buying association they would 
quickly settle the High Cost of Living burden, but while 
their interests are all in common they are unable to play 
the part of real neighbors. Farmers are coming to it 
largely through their women and children and the great 
National Farm Organization is by no means impossible 
for the future. 



THE FACE OF LIBEKTY 

I suppose every person of middle age wears a mask. 
It is bis face, and as the years go by it settles into an 
expression of tbe man's cbief aim in life, if be can be 
said to bave one. Tbat is why a shrewd observer can 
usually tell much of a man's character by looking keenly 
in his face and observing him under excitement. One 
of the most observing dairymen I know of says he can 
tell the quality of a cow by looking at her face. I notice 
that the expert hen men who select birds for the poultry 
contest spend considerable time looking at the hen's 
eye and face ! There she seems to show whether she is 
a bad egg or a good one! Lady Macbeth put it well 
when she said to her terrified husband: 

" Your face, my thane, is as a book 
Where men may read strange matters." 

We all go about wearing a mask, and those who care 
how they look may well ask how the mask is made. 

I once roomed with a young man who used to get 
before a mirror and practise a smile and a laugh. He 
was a commercial traveler, and thought it paid him to 
laugh at the jokes and smile as he talked. So he trained 
the muscles of his face and throat into a machine-made 
twist and noise which represented his stock in trade! 
He wore a mask. I have heard people say that the face 
powders and massage and tricks of rolling the eyes about 

130 



THE FACE OF LIBERTY 131 

gave them a mask of beauty. !Not long ago I talked 
with a great business man who had simply given his life 
up to the accumulation of property. He had succeeded, 
but this success had stamped his face with a mask as 
hard and flinty as steel. This man sat and told me that a 
good share of his money had been made by his ability to 
read character in the face. When he found a man show- 
ing indecision or fear in his features this man knew he 
could handle him as he saw fit. He claimed that thought 
or sentiment had little to do with it ; it was simply what 
a man did or did not do which made the mask of life. 
As for this theory that character or sentiment " light a 
candle behind the face and illuminate it," he said that 
was simply " poetic nonsense." " If a woman wanted to 
be thought beautiful after she got to be forty she must 
rub the beauty in from the outside." 

This seemed to me a mighty cynical theory, for the 
most beautiful women I know of are over fifty and never 
use anything but soap and water to " rub the beauty 
in." They wear a mask which seems like concentrated 
sunshine, and it comes from within. Yet my friend 
sat there and spoke with all the conviction of a man who 
has only to write his name on a piece of paper to bring 
a million dollars to support his word. And he had come 
to think that is about the only support worth having. 
I asked him if he had ever read Hawthorne's story 
of " The Old Stone Face." No, he had never heard of 
it before — had no time for fiction or dreaming. So I 
told him the story briefly; of the boy who grew up 
among the hills, within sight of the " old stone face." 
This was a great rock on the side of a high mountain. 



132 HOPE FARM NOTES 

The wind and the storm had slowly eaten it away until, 
when viewed from a certain angle, it bore a rude re- 
semblance to a human face. It was a stern, gloomy, 
thoughtful face, and it seemed to this boy to have been 
carved out of the rock by the very hand of God to show 
the world an ideal of power and majesty on the human 
countenance. To most of the neighbors it was merely 
" the old man of the mountain " — merely a common 
rock with an accidental shape. But this boy grew up to 
manhood believing in his heart that God had put on the 
lonely mountain his ideal of the mask of noble human 
character. And the boy went through life thinking that 
if he could only find a human being with a face like 
that on the mountain he would find a great man— one 
carrying in his life a great message to mankind. And 
so, whenever he heard of any great statesman or poet or 
preacher appearing anywhere within reach this man 
traveled to see him in the hope of finding the mask of 
the " stone face " upon the celebrity. He was always 
disappointed. These great men all showed on their faces 
the marks of dissipation or pride or some weakness of 
character, along with their power. He would come 
back and look up at the face on the mountain — always 
showing the same calm dignity and strength whether 
the happy June sunshine played over it, or whether the 
January storm bit at its rude features. So this man 
lived his simple life and died — disappointed because he 
had never been able to find God's ideal character worked 
out in a human face ! One by one men who were con- 
sidered great came to the valley, only to disappoint him, 
but finally, after long years of waiting and searching, 



THE FACE OF LIBERTY 133 

the neighbors suddenly found that their friend, who had 
carried the ideal so long in his heart, also carried on his 
face the nobility and grandeur of the figure on the moun- 
tain. Search for the ideal in others had brought it home 
to his own life. 

To my surprise, the rich and strong man who, I 
supposed, had no poetry or sentiment in his heart, 
listened attentively and nodded his head. 

" I have seen that stone face in the White Moun- 
tains. Your story of course is a mere fancy. There 
might have been some idle dreamer to whom that hap- 
pened. I will not deny it, because I know of a case 
which is somewhat in the same line. I confess that I 
would not believe it had I not seen it myself." 

So he told his story, and I give it as nearly as pos- 
sible in his own words: 

" It must have been fifteen years ago that I was re- 
turning from a business trip to Europe. On the boat I 
met a college man from my city, an expert in modern 
languages. We were much together on the trip, and 
one day we went down into the steerage to look over the 
immigrants. My friend figured that this group of 
strange human beings talked with him in fifteen differ- 
ent languages or dialects. One family in particular 
interested me. They were from the south of Poland; 
a man and woman of perhaps thirty-five, with two little 
boys. They were of the dull, heavy, ox-like type — mere 
beasts of burden in their own country. The woman 
seemed to me just about the plainest, homeliest creature 
I had ever seen. Low forehead, flat features, small eyes 
and great mouth, with huge hands and feet, she seemed, 



134 HOPE FARM NOTES 

beside the dainty women of our own party, like some 
inferior animal. I offered her a good-sized bill — they 
looked as if they needed it — but the woman just pulled 
her two black-eyed boys closer to her and refused to 
take it. 

" They passed out of my mind, until one fine, sunny 
morning old Sandy Hook seemed to rise up out of the 
water, and we headed straight for New York Harbor. 
I stood with my college friend in front, looking down 
upon the steerage passengers as they crowded forward 
to get their first view of America. Strangely enough 
that little Polish family that had interested me stood 
right below us, and my friend could hear what they 
were saying. The ship crawled up the harbor, past 
Staten Island, and then came to the Statue of Liberty. 
Most of us have become so familiar with this bronze 
beauty that we do not even glance at it. I think he* 
strong, fine face and uplifted torch mean little more than 
old-time habit to many Americans. Not so with that 
flat-faced, plain Polish woman. As we came even with 
the ( bronze goddess ' this woman tore off the little shawl 
she had tied around her head, reached out her hand 
and talked excitedly to her husband. My college friend 
listened to the conversation and laughed. 

" ' What is she saying % ' I asked. 

" ' Why, the poor, homely thing is telling her hus- 
band that it would be the pride and joy of her life if 
she could only be as beautiful as that statue — if her 
face were only like that.' 

" ' That is the limit. What is he saying? ' 

" l Just like every other husband. He is telling her 



THE FACE OF LIBERTY 135 

that to him she is handsomer than the old goddess, and 
for good measure he tells her that under freedom in 
America she will come to look like " Miss Liberty." ' 

" In all my life I had never heard anything so ridicu- 
lous, and I laughed aloud. The little family below us 
looked up at the sound and saw we were laughing at 
them. A great shadow fell over their day dream and 
they were silent until we docked, though I noticed 
that they stood hand in hand all the way. The story 
seemed so good that I told it everywhere, and it was 
called the standard joke of the season. 

" It faded out of mind and I never thought of it 
again until about ten years later one of the foremen in 
the factory died suddenly. I asked the manager who 
should be put in his place. 

" ' Well,' he said, e there is a man out in the shop 
just fitted for it. I can't pronounce his name, but I 
will bring him in.' 

" He did ; a great black-haired man who looked me 
right in the eye as I like to have people do. 

" ' How long have you been in this country ? ' I 



" i Ten years. You may not remember, but I came 
in the ship with you; in the steerage, with my wife 
and two boys.' 

" It flashed into my mind at once ; this was what 
America had done for the man. I smiled as I thought 
of the flat-faced woman who wanted to look like the 
Goddess of Liberty, and the man whose faith in America 
was such that he told her this dream could come true. 

" The man more than made good. It is wonderful 



136 HOPE FARM NOTES 

how things happen in this country. Those two black- 
eyed boys were at school with my boy and played on 
the football team with him. They were all three to go 
to college together. 

" Then yon know how, before we entered the war, 
the women organized to do Red Cross work ? One day 
my wife came home and told me how a Polish woman 
had made the most wonderful talk before her society. 
Before we knew it America had entered the war, and 
we were all at it. You couldn't keep my boy here. He 
volunteered the first week after war was declared, and 
these two black-haired boys belonging to my foreman 
volunteered with him, and they all went over the sea 
to fight for America. 

" I had not seen their mother, and I was curious to 
see what she looked like after American competence 
and success had been rubbed in. We had a big 
parade in our town during one of the Liberty Loan 
drives, and there was one division of women who carried 
service flags. I stood in the window of my club watch- 
ing the parade, and as it happened within six feet of 
me on the sidewalk stood John, my foreman. I did 
not laugh this time, nor was he shamed into silence for 
what he thought of his wife. 

" Oh, how that war did stir up and level the ele- 
ments of American society! There passed before us 
in parade, side by side, my wife with a service flag 
of one star and Johns wife with two stars in her 
flag! And as they passed they turned and looked at 
us. My wife told me later that they had been talking 
as they marched. My wife had asked her comrade if 



THE FACE OF LIBERTY 137 

she did not feel dreadfully to think of her two great 
boys far away in France. And the woman with the 
flat, homely face had answered: 

" ' No, I feel glorified to think that I, the poor im- 
migrant woman, can offer my boys in part payment for 
what America has done for me and my people.' 

" And it was just then that I saw her face. I give 
you my word that at that moment it was the most beau- 
tiful face I ever saw. There was a calm beauty and 
dignity, a light of joy upon it which made me forget 
the flat nose, the narrow forehead and the great mouth. 
They passed on, and John, the foreman, looked up at 
me. We were both thinking the same thing, master and 
man though we were. I couldn't reach him with my 
hand, but I did say: 

" ' John, she has had her life wish. She has come 
to look like the Goddess of Liberty. It was a miracle.' 

" And John answered in his slow, thoughtful way : 

" MsTo, not a miracle — always she has had that great 
spirit in her heart ; always that great love in her soul. 
She has kept that love and spirit pure all through these 
hard years, and now at the great sacrifice it shone out 
through her face. Said I not right that my wife would 
come to be the most beautiful woman on earth ? ' " 

My friend told the story in a matter-of-fact way, and 
then fell into a silence. I did not ask him how he recon- 
ciled this experience with his statement that beauty is 
rubbed in from the outside. It wasn't worth while ; we 
both knew better. The face of mature years is a mask. 
It is the candle behind it that gives it character and 
beauty. 



CAPTAIN RANDALL'S HOUR 

Uncle Isaac Randall was the last Grand Army man 
in our town. All the other old comrades had passed on. 
As a boy I used to try to imagine what " the last Grand 
Army man " would be like. Poets and artists have 
tried to picture him, but when he actually appears you 
know how far the real must travel to reach the ideal. 
For poet and artist would have us look upon some calm, 
dignified man, carried by the wings of great achieve- 
ment far above the mean and petty things of life which 
surround us like a thick fog in a narrow valley. Por 
that, I fear, is what most of us find life to be unless the 
memory of some great sacrifice or some great devotion 
can lift our heads up into the perpetual sunshine. Those 
who knew Uncle Isaac saw little of the hero about him. 
He was just a little, thin, nervous man, very deaf, irri- 
table and disappointed. No one can play the part of 
a deaf man with any approach to success unless he be a 
genuine philosopher, and Uncle Isaac was unfitted by 
nature for that. Sometimes in Summer, when the sun 
went down, you would see the old man standing in the 
barn looking off to the crimson West, over the purpling 
hills where the shadows came creeping up from the val- 
ley. A man with some poetry and philosophy would 
have seen in the darkening notch where the hills gave 
way, to let the road pass through, an approach to the 
beautiful gate through which wife and children and old 

138 



CAPTAIN RANDALL'S HOUR 139 

comrades had passed on, to wait for him beyond the 
hills. But Uncle Isaac was cursed with that curiosity 
which is the torture of the deaf — he saw the hired man 
up on the hill talking to the neighbor's boy, and his 
burning desire was to know what they were talking 
about as they stood in the twilight. 

The Great War came, and Uncle Isaac's two grand- 
sons volunteered. Before they shipped overseas they 
came back to the farm — very trim and natty in their 
brown uniforms. It irritated the old man to think that 
these boys — hardly more than babies — hardly to be 
trusted to milk a kicking cow — should be sent to fight 
America's battles. And those little rifles ! They were 
not much better than popguns, compared with his old 
army musket. The old man took the gun down from 
the nail where it had hung for years. He had kept it 
polished, and the lock with its percussion cap was still 
working. He would show these young sniffs what real 
warfare meant. So they went out in the pasture — the 
old soldier carrying his musket, carefully loaded with a 
round bullet — pushed in with the iron ramrod. In 
order to show these boy soldiers what real warfare 
might be, the old man sighted the musket over the fence 
and aimed at a board about 300 yards away. The bul- 
let went at least five feet wide, while the old musket 
kicked back so hard that Uncle Isaac winced with the 
pain. Then one of the boys quietly raised his " popgun ' y 
and aimed at a bush at least half a mile away across the 
valley. In a fraction of a minute he fired half a dozen 
bullets which tore up the ground all around that bush. 
Then the boys hung one of their brown uniforms on the 



140 HOPE FARM NOTES 

fence across the pasture, and put Grandpa's old blue 
coat beside it. You could hardly distinguish the brown 
coat against the background, while the blue coat stood 
out like a target. It was hard for the old man to 
realize that both he and his musket belonged to a van- 
ished past. The boys looked at the gun and at Grandpa 
marching home — trying to throw his old shoulders back 
into military form — and smiled knowingly at each other 
as youth has ever done in the pride of its power. They 
could not see — who of us ever can see? — the spiritual 
forces of patriotism which walked beside the old man, 
waiting for the time to show their power. 

The weeks went by, and day by day Grandpa read 
his paper with growing indignation. You remember 
how for months the army in France seemed to stand 
still before that great " Hindenburg line " which 
stretched out like an iron wall in front of Germany. It 
seemed to Uncle Isaac as if his boys and the rest of 
the army were cowards — afraid to march up to the line 
and fight. One day he threw down his paper and ex- 
pressed himself fully, as only an old soldier can. 

" I told you those boys never would fight. At the 
Battle of the Wilderness Lee had a line of defense 
twice as strong as this Hindenburg ever had. Did Gen- 
eral Grant sit still and wait for something to happen? 
Not much! 

" ' Forward by the left flank ! ' 

" That was the order, and we went forward. Don't 
you know what he said at Fort Donelson ? ' I propose 
to move on your works at once. 7 If General Grant was 
in France that's what he'd say, and within an hour 



CAPTAIN RANDALL'S HOUR 141 

you'd see old Hindenburg coming out to surrender! 
My regiment fought all day against a regiment from 
North Carolina. I'll tell you what ! Let me have my 
old regiment and that North Carolina regiment along- 
side and I'll guarantee that we will break right through 
that Hindenburg line, march right across the Rhine, 
hog-tie the Kaiser and bring him back with us." 

" But, father," said his daughter gently, " don't you 
remember what Harry writes? They don't fight that 
way now. The cannon must open a way first. Harry 
says they fire shells so large and powerful that when 
they strike the ground they make a hole so large you 
could put the barn into it. Suppose one of these big 
shells struck in the middle of your regiment 1 " 

" I don't care," said Uncle Isaac. ". We'd start, any- 
way! Wed move on those breastworks and take our 
chances! " 

And mother wrote about it to her boys in the army 
over in France. The young fellows laughed at the 
thought of those old white-haired men, with their anti- 
quated weapons, lined up before the death-dealing power 
of Germany. It seemed such a foolish thing to youth. 
The letter finally came to the grey-haired colonel of 
the regiment — an elderly man who had in some way 
held his army place in the ocean of youth which sur- 
rounded him. His eyes were moist as he read it, for he 
knew that if that group of wasted, white-haired men had 
lined up in front of the army they would not have been 
alone. Down the aisles of history would have come a 
throng of old heroes — the spirit of the past would have 
stood with them. They would have stilled the laughter, 



142 HOPE FARM NOTES 

and if these old veterans had started forward the whole 
great army would have thrown off restraint, broken 
orders and followed them through the " Hindenburg 
line." 

But Uncle Isaac, at home, humiliated and sad, went 
about the farm with something like a prayer in his old 
heart. 

" Why can't I do something to help ? Don't make me 
know my fighting days are over. What can I do ? " 

And Uncle Isaac finally had his chance. Perhaps 
you remember how at one time during the war things 
seemed dark enough. Our boys were swarming across 
the ocean, and submarines were watching for them. 
Pood was scarce. Prost and storm had turned against 
us. Money was flowing out like water. Spies and 
German sympathizers were poisoning the public mind, 
and the Liberty Loan campaign was lagging. Uncle 
Isaac, reading it all day by day in his paper, felt like 
a man in prison galled to the soul by his inability to 
help. There came a big patriotic meeting at the county 
town. It was a factory town with many European 
laborers. They were restless and uneasy, opposed to the 
draft, tired of the war and not yet in full sympathy 
with America. Uncle Isaac determined to go to this 
meeting, though his daughter did all she could to dis- 
suade him. There was no stopping him when he once 
made up his mind, so his daughter let him have his way, 
but she sent old John Zabriski along with him. Old 
John was a German Pole who came to this country 
as a young man out of the German army. Pie had lived 
on Uncle Isaac's farm for years, and just as a cabbage 



CAPTAIN RANDALL'S HOUR 143 

or a tomato plant seems the stronger and better for 
transplanting, so this transplanted European in the soil 
of this country had grown into the noblest type of 
American. So the daughter, standing in the farmhouse 
door with eyes that were a little dimmed, watched these 
two old men drive away to the meeting. 

They had the speaker's stand in front of the court 
house. The street was packed with a great crowd. 
Right in front was a group of sullen, defiant foreigners 
who had evidently come for trouble. The sheriff was 
afraid of them, and inside the court house out of sight, 
but ready for instant service, was a squad of soldiers. 
A young man who was running for the Legislature 
caught sight of Uncle Isaac and led him through the 
court house to the speaker's platform, and John went, 
too, as bodyguard. The old veteran sat there in his 
blue coat and hat with the gold braid, unable to hear a 
word, but full of the spirit which had come down to him 
from the old days. 

Something was wrong. Even Uncle Isaac could see 
that, and John Zabriski beside him looked grave and 
anxious. That solid group of rough men in front began 
to sway back and forth like the movement of water 
when the high wind blows over it, and a sullen murmur, 
growing louder, came from the crowd. A small, effemi- 
nate-looking man was making a speech. Very likely 
his ancestors came originally to this country two cen- 
turies ago, but somewhere back in the years this man's 
forebears had made a fortune. Instead of serving as 
a tool to spur the family on to finer things it had been 
spread out like a soft cushion to carry them through life 



1U HOPE FARM NOTES 

without a bruise or bump. And these rough men, whose 
life had been all bruise and turmoil, knew that this 
soft little American was here talking platitudes when he 
should have been over in France. Perhaps you have 
never heard the angry murmur of a sullen crowd grow 
into a roar of rage, until the crowd becomes like a wild 
beast. The sheriff had heard this, and he was frankly 
frightened. He started a messenger back into the court 
house to notify the soldiers, but old John Zabriski 
stopped him. 

" Wait," he said, do not that. You lose those 
men by fighting. We gain them." 

Then, before anyone could stop him, old John stepped 
up in front and barked out strange words which seemed 
like a command. Then a curious thing happened. The 
angry murmur stilled. The crowd stopped its move- 
ment, and then every man stood at attention ! Almost 
every man there had in former years served in one of 
the European armies, and what old John had barked at 
them was the old army command which had been drilled 
into them years before. And through force of habit 
which had become instinct, that order, for the moment, 
changed that mob into an army of attentive soldiers. 
The bandmaster was a man of imagination, and as 
quickly as his men could catch up their instruments they 
began playing " The Star Spangled Banner." Poor old 
Uncle Isaac heard nothing of this. He could only guess 
what it was all about until John Zabriski laboriously 
wrote on a piece of paper : 

" Dey blay der Shtar Banner ! " 

Then there came into Uncle Isaac's sad life the great, 



CAPTAIN RANDALL'S HOUR 145 

glorious joy of power and opportunity. He walked 
down to the front of the stage, took off his gold-braided 
hat and bowed his white head before them all. And old 
John Zabriski, the transplanted European, came and 
stood at his side. A young woman, dressed all in white, 
caught up a flag and came and stood beside the two old 
men. Then a wounded soldier with one empty sleeve 
pinned to his breast followed her. And there in that 
sunlit street a great, holy silence fell over that vast 
crowd. For there before them on that platform stood 
the glory, the pride, the precious legacy of American 
history. The last Grand Army man, the European 
peasant made over into an American, and the young 
people who represented the promise and hope shining in 
the legacy which men like Uncle Isaac and John Za- 
briski have given them. 

When the band stopped playing a mighty cheer went 
up from that great crowd, and one by one the men of 
that sullen group in front took off their hats and joined 
in the cheering. They made Uncle Isaac get up again 
and again to salute, and no less a person than Judge 
Bradley shook both hands and said : 

" We all thank you, Captain Randall. You have 
saved this great meeting and made this town solidly 
patriotic." It was a proud old soldier who marched 
into the farmhouse kitchen that night, and in answer to 
his daughter's questioning eyes he said : 

" Annie, I want you to write those boys all about it. 
Tell 'em they are not doing it all. Tell 'em Judge 
Bradley called me cap'n and said I saved the meeting. 
I only wish General Grant could have been there ! " 



146 HOPE FARM NOTES 

All of which goes to show that those of you who have 
come to white hair should not feel that you are out of the 
game yet. Material things may go hy us, but the spirit 
of the good old days is still the last resort ! 



" SNOW BOUND " 

This is the one night of the year for reading " Snow 
Bound." Every man with New England blood in 
his veins should read Whittier's poem at least once a 
year. That becomes as much of a habit as eating baked 
beans and fishballs. Eor two days now the storm has 
roared over our hills and shut us in. It must have 
been on just such a night as this that Emerson wrote: 

" The sled and traveler stopped ; the courier's feet 
Delayed; all friends shut out, the housemates sit 
Around the radiant fireplace enclosed 
In a tumultuous privacy of storm." 

Of course, Emerson lived at a time when the tele- 
phone and the electric light and the steam-heated house 
were dreams too obscure even for his great mind to com- 
prehend. So, in spite of this fearful storm, the strong 
arm of the electric current still reaches our house, and 
while the telephone is slow, we can get our message 
through, after a fashion. But we are shut in. The car 
and the truck are useless tonight. The horses stamp 
contentedly in the barn — not troubling about the head- 
high drifts which are piled along the roadway. A bad 
night for a fire or for a hurry call for the doctor; but 
why worry about that as we sit here before the fire ? 

I got my copy of " Snow Bound " in 1872, and I 
have read the poem at least once each year since, and I 

147 ' 



148 HOPE FARM NOTES 

have carried it all over the country with me. It is a 
little shabby now, but somehow that is the way I like to 
see old friends: 

" Shut in from all the world without 
We sat the clean winged hearth about, 
Content to let the north wind roar 
In baffled rage at pane and door, 
While the red logs before us beat 
The frost-line back with tropic heat. 

"Between the andiron's straddling feet 
The mug of cider simmered low, 
The apples sputtered in a row 
And close at hand the basket stood 
With nuts from brown October's wood. 

" What matter how the night behaved % 
What matter how the north wind raved ? 
Blow high, blow low, not all its snow 
Could quench our hearth fire's ruddy glow." 



There is no finer picture of the old-time Northern 
farm home, and we Yankees are bound to think that 
with all her faults New England did in those days set 
the world an example of what a farm home ought to be. 
So I lay aside the book and look about me to see how 
close New Jersey can come on this fearful night to 
matching this old-time picture. 

Here we are before the fire. Great logs of apple 
wood are blazing up into the black chimney. In Whit- 
tier's day the open fire produced all the light, but here 
we have our electric light blazing, and I think as I sit 
here how miles away the great engines are working to 
send the current far up among the lonely hills to our 



" SNOW BOUND " 149 

home. For supper we had a thick tomato soup, a big 
dish of cornmeal mush — the grain ground in our little 
grinder — pot cheese, entire wheat bread and butter, 
baked apples and all the milk we could drink. Just run 
that over and see if it does not furnish as fine a balanced 
ration and as good a lot of vitamines as any $2 dinner 
in New York — and nearly 80 per cent of it was pro- 
duced on this farm. Now the girls have washed the 
dishes and planned breakfast, and here we are. Mother 
sits in the first choice of seats before the fire. That is 
where she belongs. She is mending a pair of stockings, 
and as her fingers fly, no doubt she is thinking of those 
warmer days back in Mississippi. My daughter has 
just put a new record into her Victrola. The music 
comes softly to us — " Juanita." 

" Soft o'er the fountain 
Lingering falls the Southern moon." 

I wonder what Whittier's folks would have said to 
that ! Two of the little girls are looking over some 
music, trying to get the air in " I dreamt that I dwelt 
in marble halls ! " There is no " frost line " in this 
house for the fire to drive back, for there is a good hot- 
water radiator in the corner. The pipe from the spring- 
seems to have frozen, but the faithful old windmill, 
standing over the well at the barn, has stretched out 
its arms to catch this roaring gale and make it carry 
the water up to the tank. Thomas and three of the boys 
are playing parchesi, while the rest of the company 
give them all advice about playing from time to time. 
I have a big chair by the corner of the fireplace — where 



150 HOPE FARM NOTES 

grandfather is supposed to sit — and little Rose is curled 
up on my lap eating an apple. I wish you were here. 
We could easily make room for you right in front of 
the fire, and we would surely call on you for a new 
story. 

The wind is howling on the outside. As we sit here 
in comfort there comes an eager, pitiful face at the 
window pleading to be taken in. No, it is not the old 
story of the wayward child coming back to the lights of 
home. The nearest we can come to that at Hope Earm 
is the black cat with the dash of white at her face and 
throat. She and her tribe are expected to stay at the 
barn and catch rats, but there she is out in the cold 
looking in at the window. Mother is as stern as a 
Spartan mother when it comes to cats in the house. She 
will not have them there. But, after all, they are Hope 
Farm folks, and the little girls plead so hard that the 
good lady looks the other way when the baby opens the 
door. In comes the black cat and, though they were 
not invited, three of her brothers and sisters run in 
with her! So now I shall sit with little Rose on my 
lap, while on her lap is a cushion on which the white- 
faced kitty purrs contentedly. In the original " Snow 
Bound " the mug of cider simmered between the and- 
irons. ~No hot drinks for us. A little of that cold 
pasteurized apple juice goes well. We see no use in 
cooking apples before the fire. There is that big basket 
of Baldwins by the table. Help yourself — we like them 
cold. Cherry-top was ahead in the game, but Thomas 
has just taken his leading " man " and sent him back 
to the starting point. The boy is a good sport. He takes 



" SNOW BOUND " 151 

a big bite out of a fresh Baldwin and goes after them 
again. The nearest we can come to " nuts from brown 
October's wood " is a big bag of roasted peanuts. We 
have all been eating them and throwing the hulls at the 
fire. They have accumulated so that Mother's idea of 
neatness compels her to get up and brush them all into 
the blaze. I did not tell you that we are starting up 
our little Florida farm' again. Jack will grow a crop 
of sugar cane and peanuts. 

And so, here in New Jersey, as well as in old-time 
New England, we care not how the wind blows or how 
the storm roars. This is home, and we are satisfied 
with it — all of us, from the white-faced kitty up to the 
Hope Farm man. We have all worked to make this 
home. It is a co-operative affair. None of us could 
be called rich or great, yet nothing could ever buy what 
we see in our big fire. Every now and then Mother 
looks up from her work and glances across the room at 
me with a smile. I know what she has in mind. Some 
of us rise to the power of animals in our ability to 
communicate thought without words. Life has been 
very much of a fight with us, but it seems worth while 
as we look at this big room full of eager young people, 
content and happy with the simple things of life. As 
little Rose snuggles up closer to me and pulls the kitty 
with her I begin to think of some of the complaining 
fault-finding people I know. I do know some star per- 
formers at the job of pitying themselves and magnify- 
ing their own troubles. On a night like this I will 
wager an apple that they are pouring out the gloom 
and trouble like a man tipping over a barrel of cold 



152 HOPE FARM NOTES 

water. It's their rheumatism or their debts or the 
Administration or the Republican party, or something 
else that they hold responsible for their troubles. I wish 
I could have some of those fellows here tonight, and 
also some of you folks who know the joy of looking 
on the bright side. We would do our best to rub some of 
the gloom out of them. I will guarantee that any one of 
us could, if we wanted to, tell the truth about our own 
troubles so that these gloomy individuals would look 
like " pikers " in their poor little self-pity ! I would 
like to read extracts from two new books to them. One 
is " A Labrador Doctor," by W. T. Grenfell; the other, 
" The Great Hunger," by John Bojer. 

I have just been reading these books, and I shall read 
them over again. Dr. Grenfell has given his life to 
service in the far North among the fishermen of Lab- 
rador. A man of his ability could easily have gained 
fame and wealth by practising his profession in some 
great city. He went where he was most needed — into 
the cold, lonely places where humanity hungers and suf- 
fers for help. It has always seemed to me just about 
the noblest thing in life for a man of great natural 
ability to gain what science and education can give him 
and carry that great gift out to those who need it most. 
Grenfell did that, and this modest story of his life 
is wonderful to anyone who can get the message. I 
have always thought that the greatest teachers and 
preachers and wise men generally are not so much 
needed in the big cities as in the lonely country places. 
The city owes all it has in men and money to the coun- 
try, but it will seldom acknowledge the gift. The city 



"SNOW BOUND" 153 

itself is able to offer as a gift knowledge, science and 
training. Yet those who receive this gift desire for the 
most part to remain in the city, when they should carry 
their gift out into the lonely and hard places where the 
city must finally go for strength. The storm seems hard 
tonight, but it is a mere zephyr to the Winters which 
Dr. Grenfell's people endure. I wish I could tell you 
some of the wonderful things which have happened in 
that lonely land. At one place the doctor found a girl 
dying of typhoid. There was no way of saving her, 
and as soon as she was buried it was necessary to burn 
the rude bunk and the straw in which she lay. They 
carried it to the top of a hill and built a fire. For sev- 
eral days one of the fishing boats had been lost at sea 
in the fog, and had been given up for lost with all on 
board. The despairing men in that boat — far out at 
sea — saw the light when that hideous bed was burned 
and were able to get to land ! Some of you self-pitying 
people ought to read how Dr. Grenfell organized a 
little orphans' home to care for the little waifs of this 
lonely place. In one case a little girl of four, while her 
father was away hunting, crawled out into the snow, 
so that both legs were badly frozen. Gangrene set in 
halfway to the knee, and the father actually chopped 
both legs off to save her life! Think of such a child 
in the frozen North. I think of her as little Rose 
hugs the kitty close. Dr. Grenfell took this child, 
operated on her, obtained artificial legs, and now she 
can run about like other children. I wish I could tell 
you more about this book. At one time two men came 
together after medicine. One took a bottle of cough 



154 HOPE FARM NOTES 

mixture, the other a strong turpentine liniment for a 
sprained knee. By mistake they mixed up the medi- 
cine. One rubbed the cough medicine on his knee, the 
other drank the liniment. If I had some fellow who 
thinks the Lord has put a special curse on him before 
our fire tonight I would tell him what others have en- 
dured. The chances are we could make him contribute 
something to the cause before we were done with him. 
The other book I mentioned, " The Great Hunger," 
is a story of Norwegian life and, as I think, very power- 
ful. A boy born to poverty and disgrace grew up with 
a great hunger in his heart — he knew not what it was. 
He felt that power and material wealth would bring him 
the happiness he sought. He gained education, power, 
wealth and love, yet still the great hunger tortured him. 
Poverty, sickness, the deepest sorrow fell upon him, 
and at last the great hunger was satisfied by doing a 
needed service for the man who had done him the most 
hideous wrong ! I wish I could tell you more about it. 
It is a powerful book ; but it is time for little Eose to 
go to bed. Off she goes with a hug for all, and the 
children follow her one by one. I am not going to 
put more logs on that fire. Let it die down. The end 
of the day has come. Let the storm howl through the 
night like a pack of wolves at the door. They cannot 
get at us. Even if they did they can never destroy the 
memory of this night. 



" CLASS ' j 

The other day the papers announced the death of the ex- 
Empress Eugenie. She lingered along, feeble and half- 
blind, until she was nearly 95 years old. She has been 
called "the Queen of Sorrows," for few other women 
have lived a sadder life. Very few of this generation 
knew or cared anything about her. I presume most of 
our young people skipped the details of her life as given 
in the papers. Yet when I was a boy, shortly before 
the war between France and Germany, the women of 
the world regarded this sad empress as the great model 
of beauty and fashion. I suppose it would be hard for 
women in these days to realize how this beautiful 
empress dictated to people in every land how they 
should arrange their hair and wear their dresses. At 
that time most women wore their hair in short nets 
bunched just below the neck, and it was the age of 
" hoopskirts " — most of them, as it seemed, four to five 
feet wide. Just how this woman managed to put her 
ideas of fashion into the imagination of her sisters I 
never could understand. From the big city to the little 
backwoods hamlet women were studying to see what 
" Ugeeny " advised them to wear. I have often won- 
dered if in her last days the poor, blind, feeble woman 
remembered those days of power. 

Her death brings to mind an incident that had long 
been forgotten. I had been sent to one of the neigh- 

155 



156 HOPE FARM NOTES 

bors to borrow some milk, since our cow was dry. In 
those days, any caller — even a little boy — was like a 
pond in which one went fishing for compliments. The 
woman of the house, an immense, fat creature, with 
the shape of a barrel, a short, thick neck and a round 
moon face, had arrayed herself in glad clothes of the 
latest style— several years, I imagine, behind Paris. 
She wore an immense hoopskirt, which gave her the ap- 
pearance of walking inside of a hogshead. Her hair 
was parted in the middle and brought down beside her 
wide face to be caught in a net just below her ears. I 
know so little and care so much less about style in 
clothes that I can remember in detail only two cos- 
tumes that I have ever seen women wear. This outfit is 
one of them. 

" This is just what Ugeeny is wearing," said the fat 
lady as she poured out the milk. " You can tell your 
aunt that you have seen one lady dressed just like 
Paris." 

It did not strike me as very impressive, but I was 
glad to have the experience. 

" You can tell her, too, that a very fine gentleman 
came here today and said I looked enough like Ugeeny to 
be her half-sister — dressed as I am now. He has been 
in Paris, too." 

" It was a book agent," put in her husband, " and sold 
her a book on the strength of that yarn. Say, Mary, 
you don't look any more like Ugeeny than old Spot 
does — and you don't need to." 

" The trouble with you, John Drake, is that you have 
no idea of beauty." 



« CLASS » 157 

" I know it. I may not have any soul, but I've got 
a stomach, and I know that you can make the best 
doughnuts and Indian pudding ever made in Bristol 
County. That's more than Ugeeny ever did, or ever can 
do. You are worth three of her for practical value to the 
world, and I think you a handsome woman — but you 
can't look like her, because you haven't got the shape, 
and I'm glad of it." 

But where was there ever a woman who could be 
satisfied with such evident truth, and who did not reach 
out after the impossible? She turned to old Grandpa, 
who sat back in the corner, away from the light. 

" Now, Grandpa, you seen a lot of the world. What 
do you say ? Don't I look like Ugeeny % " 

Old Grandpa nodded his white head and looked at 
her critically. 

" You're in her class, Mary — that's what I'll say — 
you're in her class ! " 

" You're in her class," repeated Grandpa. " The 
people in this world are divided into two classes — 
strung together like beads on different strings. Some 
strings are like character, others like looks or shape or 
thinking or maybe meanness. You can't get out of your 
class — for the Lord organized it and teaches it. You 
look at me ; I'm in the class with some of the finest men 
that ever lived on earth ! " 

" Now, Mary, see what you've done," said John 
Drake. " You've got Grandpa started on that class 
business. He's worse than Ugeeny." 

But Grandpa went right ahead. " Ain't I in the class 
with the old and new prophets ? Here I have for years 



158 HOPE FARM NOTES 

been telling what is coming to the world. Folks won't 
always be down as they are now. My wife killed her- 
self carrying water and fuel to get up vittles and keep 
the house clean. Some day or 'nuther every farm- 
house will have water and heat and light right inside. 
There'll be power to do all this heavy work. In those 
days farmers will be kings." 

The old man's face lighted up as he talked. 

" You don't believe me now, but it will all come. 
I'm out ahead of the crowd. So was Wendell Phillips 
and William Lloyd Garrison and Charles Sumner on 
the slavery question. Folks hooted at them, laughed 
them down and did all they could to stop their ideas. 
But you can't stop one of these ideas when there's a man 
back of it. Those men lived to see what the world called 
fool notions made into wisdom. They just had visions 
which don't come to common men. That's what I've got 
now, and what I ask is, Ain't I in their class? " 

" If I was in your place I wouldn't mind Grandpa," 
said Mary, as she shook out that great hoopskirt. 
" That's not good talk for boys ; it makes them discon- 
tented ! " 

" But that's why they've got to be if the world is 
going ahead," put in Grandpa. " What's the matter 
with farming today, I'll ask? Education has all gone 
to other things. Farmers think the common schools are 
plenty good enough for farmers, while the colleges are 
all for lawyers and such like. You mark what I say — 
some day or 'nuther there will be farm colleges as big as 
any, where farming will be taught just like lawing or 
doctoring. Then people will see that farming is agri- 



" CLASS " 159 

culture, and the difference between the two will change 
the world. This Ugeeny doesn't amount to much as a 
woman, and I don't believe this Prince Imperial will 
ever rule France, but Ugeeny has put women like Mary 
in her class. These clothes look foolish to me, but every 
woman who follows Ugeeny in dress gets into her class, 
and it's like a schoolgirl passing from one grade to an- 
other, for some day they'll pass out of that hoopskirt 
and that bob net for their hair and rise up to better 
things, and it will be Ugeeny that started them. She 
may be only a painted doll, but she has given the women 
ideas of beauty and something better than common. 
Sometime or 'nuther you will see the result of her idle 
life. That's why I say Mary's in Ugeeny's class. She's 
got the vision of beauty and something far ahead of you, 
'John. You are smart and strong, but Mary's getting 
class. That hoopskirt and that net are not prisons — 
they help to set her free." 

" Well, Grandpa," said John, good-naturedly, " I 
suppose, according to you, I ought to put on a swallow- 
tailed coat every time I milk." 

" No ; not when you milk, John, but if you shaved 
every day and put on your best clothes once a day for 
supper, you would get in the upper class, and carry 
your boys with you. But I ask this boy here, ain't I in 
their class?" 

I was sure of it, but just then we heard the horn sound- 
ing far down the road. I knew that Uncle Daniel had 
grown tired of waiting for the milk, so he blew the horn 
to remind me that I was still in the class of errand boys. 

In August of that year I went up on Black Mount 



160 HOPE FARM NOTES 

after huckleberries, and ran upon Grandpa once more. 
He sat on a rock resting, while Mary and three children 
were picking near by. The hill was thick with a tangle 
of berry vines and briars, with snakes and woodchucks 
as sole inhabitants. Old Grandpa sat on the rock and 
waved his stick abont. 

" In my younger days this hill was a cornfield. I 
have seen it all in wheat. Farmers let education and 
money get away, and, of course, the best boys chased 
out after them. But it won't always be so. Some day or 
'nuther this field will come back. It won't pay in these 
coming days to raise huckleberries in this way. They 
will be raised in gardens like strawberries and rasp- 
berries. This hill will have to produce something that 
is worth more — peaches or apples." 

" But how can they make peaches grow on this sour 
hill, Grandpa ? " asked one of the boys. " There's a 
seedling now — 10 years old and not four feet high ! " 

" They will bring in lime for the soil as they will 
coal in place of wood. I don't know how it will be done, 
but some day or 'nuther they will use yeast in the soil 
as they do in bread to make it come up, and they'll har- 
ness the lightning to 'lectrify it. You wait till these 
farm colleges give us knowledge. And farmers, too. 
They won't always stand back and fight each other and 
backbite and try to get each other's hide. Some day or 
'nuther grown-up men and women are going to see what 
life ought to be. They will come together to live, in- 
stead of standing apart to die. I may not see it, and 
people laugh at me for saying what I know must come 
true. But didn't they laugh at Columbus ? Didn't they 



" CLASS " 161 

try to kill Galileo? Wasn't Morse voted a fool? 
Hasn't it always been so with the men and women who 
looked far over the valley and saw the light ahead? 
And, tell me this: Ain't I in their class? " 

That was 50 years and more ago. I had forgotten it, 
and yet when I read the headlines announcing the death 
of Empress Eugenie I had to put the paper down, for 
there rose before me a picture of that sunny Summer 
day on the New England hills. On the rock in that 
lonely pasture sat old Grandpa pointing with his stick 
far across the rolling valley, far to the shadow on the 
distant hills, where he knew the immortals were awaiting 
him — as one who had kept his soul clean and his faith 
undimmed. I wish I could look across the valley to the 
distant hills with the sublime hope with which he asked 
his old question: 

"Ain't I in their class?" 

A year or two ago I went back to the old town. Ah, 
but if Grandpa could see it now ! The old house with 
its " beau " windows and new roof seemed to be dressed 
with as much taste as Eugenie would be if she were still 
Empress of Erance. There were power and light and 
heat all through it. Two boys and a girl were home 
from an agricultural college — one of the boys being 
manager of the local selling organization. Black Mount 
was a forest of Mcintosh and Baldwin apple trees, the 
old swamp was drained and lay a thick mat of clover. 
Grandpa's vision had come true — all but one thing. 
Education and power had brought material things, 
which would have seemed to be miracles to John and 
Mary. Yet farmers were not " kings," after all, as 



162 HOPE FARM NOTES 

Grandpa said they would be, for there was still discon- 
tent and talk of injustice. But, after all, that is what 
Grandpa said — " That's what they've got to be, if the 
world is going ahead." 

Perhaps, after all, a " divine discontent " is the 
noblest legacy of the ages. 

But in the churchyard back in one corner I came 
upon Grandpa's grave. It was not very well cared for. 
It had not been trimmed. A bird had made her nest and 
reared her brood right by the side of the headstone. It 
was a lonely place. As I stood there a cow in the ad- 
joining pasture put her head over the stone wall and 
tried to gnaw the grass on that neglected grave. And 
this was what they had carved on the stone: 

"The Lord giveth and the Lord takeih away!" 

If I could have my way I would put up another 
stone with this inscription: 

Grandpa. 
"He has entered their class." 



" I'LL TELL GOD " 

Just at this time many people seem to be concerned 
about what they call " the unseen world." That means 
the state of existence after death. Many of our readers 
have written asking* what I think or know about this. 
Most of those who write me seem to be living in lonely 
places or under rather hard conditions. They have all 
lost wife or husband, parent, child, or some dear friend. 
~Now like most other reasoning people, I have tried to 
imagine what really happens to a human being after 
what we call death, and I have had some curious experi- ■ 
ences which you might or might not credit. When I was 
a boy, I was thrown much into the society of avowed 
spiritualists. I knew several so-called " mediums " and 
attended many " seances." The evident clumsy and 
vulgar " fakes " about most of those things disgusted 
me, yet I must admit that some of these " mediums " did 
possess a strange and peculiar power which I have never 
been able to understand. 

Most of these sincere " mediums " seemed to be peo- 
ple who had suffered greatly and had carried through 
life some great affliction or trouble over which they con- 
stantly brooded. I have come to believe that the blind 
and deaf and all seriously afflicted see and understand 
things which most others do not. An afflicted person is 
forced to develop extraordinary power in order to make 
up for the loss of the missing limb or organ or faculty. 
-The blind man must learn to see with his fingers and 

163 



164 HOPE FARM NOTES 

his ears. The deaf man must hear with his eyes or 
develop a sort of quick judgment or instinct of decision. 
The man plunged into grief or despondency at the loss 
of fortune, friends or health must rise out of it through 
some extraordinary development of faith and hope and 
will-power. Someone has said that the Wind or deaf 
man is "half dead," and in his efforts to do any- 
thing like a full man's work in the world, he must bor- 
row power from the great " unseen world." For 
example, I will ask you this question: Take a woman 
like Helen Keller, without sight or speech or hearing. 
Take a man who is totally deaf and also blind — how 
mould they know physically when they are dead? T 
think I can understand why it is that real advancement 
in true religion and Christian thought has for the most 
part been made by some " man of sorrows," or people 
who through great affliction have been forced to go to 
the " unseen world " for help ! 

Years ago, in a Western State, there lived a farmer. 
I do not know whether he is living now or not. Perhaps 
he will read this. Perhaps he has gone into the silent 
country to learn what influence the little child had with 
the Ruler of the universe. This man was deaf. 
Through long years, his hearing had slowly failed and 
its going left a dark discouragement upon him. He 
owned his farm and was moderately well-to-do. A hard 
worker and honest man, he went about his work 
mechanically, through habit, with a great hunger in his 
heart. He did not know what it was; a longing for 
human sympathy and love. His wife was a good woman 
but all her childhood had been starved of sympathy and 



" I'LL TELL GOD » 165 

poetry and she could not understand. She made her 
husband comfortable and loved him in her strange, in- 
expressive way, but it is hard, after all, to get over the 
feeling that the afflicted are abnormal and strange. 
They had no children, their one little girl had died in 
babyhood. Sometimes at night you would see the deaf 
man standing in the barnyard at the gate, looking off 
over the hills to the west where the clouds were glorious 
in the sunset. And his practical wife would see him 
standing there with the empty milk pail on his arm. 
She could not understand the vision and glory, the mes- 
sage from the unseen world which filled her husband's 
soul at such times. So she would go out to the barn- 
yard, shake her dreaming husband by the arm and 
shout in his ear: 

"Wake up wnd get that milking done." 
She meant well, and her husband never complained. 
She meant to save his money, but he knew in such 
moments that money never could pay his passage off 
through the purple sunset to the " unseen land." 

Some day, I think I will tell some of the " adven- 
tures in the silence," which fall to the daily life of the 
deaf man. One Saturday afternoon this man and his 
wife drove to town together. While his wife was doing 
her shopping the man walked about to meet some of his 
old friends. As he stood on the street, a sharp-faced 
woman came out of the store followed by a little child. 
It was a little black-haired thing with great brown 
eyes which carried the look of some hunted wild animal. 
A poor thin little thing with a shabby dress and tattered 
shoes. As she passed, the child glanced up at the farmer 



166 HOPE FARM NOTES 

and saw something in his face that gave her confidence, 
for she smiled at him and held out her little hand. 
The woman turned sharply and the frightened child 
stumbled over a little stone. 

" You awkward little brat/' shrilled the woman, " take 
that," and with her heavy hand she slapped the thin 
little face. Then something like the love of a lioness for 
her cub suddenly started in that farmer's heart. Many 
fool jokes have been made about " love at first sight," 
but it is really nothing short of a divine message when 
two lives are suddenly welded together forever. Under 
excitement, the deaf are rarely dignified, but they are 
strangely and forcibly emphatic. The woman quailed 
before the roar of that farmer and the little girl ran 
to him and held his hand for protection. A crowd gath- 
ered and Lawyer Brown came running down from his 
ofiice. 

" I want this child," said the farmer. " You know 
me; get her for me." 

It was not very hard to do. The woman had mar- 
ried a man with this little girl. The man had run away 
and left her (I do not much blame him), and this 
" brat " had been left on her hands. 

" Take her, and welcome," said the sharp-faced 
woman. " A good riddance to bad rubbish." 

So Lawyer Brown fixed it up legally and the deaf 
man walked off to where his wagon stood, with the 
little girl hanging tight to his big finger. 

When the woman came with her load of packages, she 
found her husband sitting on the wagon seat with the 
little girl sitting on his lap. She had found that she 



" I'LL TELL GOD " 167 

could not make him hear, so she just sat there looking 
into his face, and they both understood. But the good 
woman did not understand. 

" What do you mean by picking up a child like you 
would a stray kitten? Put her down and leave her 
here." 

But that was as far as she got. Her husband looked 
at her with a fierce glare, and there was a sound in 
his throat which she did not like. I can tell you that 
when these good-natured and long-suffering men finally 
assert themselves, there is a great clumsy force about it 
that cannot be resisted. And when they got home and 
the little child sat up at the table between them, some- 
thing of mother-love stirred in the woman's heart. She 
actually tried to kiss the little thing, but the child trem- 
bled and ran to the farmer and climbed on his knee. 
The woman paused at her work to watch them as they 
sat before the fire, and something that was like the be- 
ginning of jealous rage came into her heart, for it came 
to her that this little one had seen at once something in 
her husband's life and soul that she had not been able to 
understand. 

There was something more than beautiful in the 
strange intimacy which sprang up between the deaf 
farmer and the little girl. In some way she made her- 
self understood and she followed him about day by day 
at his work or on his lonely walk of a Sunday after- 
noon. You would see her riding on the wagon beside 
him, standing near as he milked, or holding his finger 
as he came down the lane at sunset. On a sunny Sunday 
afternoon, you might come upon them sitting at the top 



168 HOPE FARM NOTES 

of a high hill with the old dog heside them, looking 
off across the pleasant country. And as the shadows 
grew longer, they would come home, the farmer carrying 
the little one, and the old dog walking ahead. I cannot 
tell you the peace and renewed hope which the little waif 
brought to that farmer's heart through the gentle yet 
mighty force of love. And the farmer's wife would look 
out of the window and see them coming. She could not 
walk with her husband through lonely places and make 
him understand, because she had never learned how. 
Yet the little one was drawing the older people closer 
together and was showing them more of the greatest 
mystery and the greatest meaning of life. But there 
came a Sunday when the little one could not walk over 
the hills. The day was bright and fair, the farmer stood 
looking at the cool shadows of the blue pines sadly and 
the old dog put his head on one side and regarded his 
master curiously. They could both hear the voice of the 
hills calling them away. And the voices came to the 
little one, hot and weary with fever, tossing on her little 
bed upstairs. The doctor shook his head when they 
called him in. The child was done with earthly 
things, — surely called off into the Country Unseen just 
as love and home had come to her. The farmer went 
up into the sick-room where his wife sat by the little 
sufferer. This man had never regarded his wife as a 
handsome woman, but he was startled at her face as she 
bent over the child. For at last in the face of death and 
sacrifice, love had really come to that woman's lonely 
heart, and the joy of it illuminated her face like a lamp 
within. 



"I'LL TELL GOD" 169 

The farmer was left alone with the child. She knew 
him and beckoned him to come near and moved her 
lips to speak. The man lay on the bed beside her and 
put his ear close to the little mouth, but try as he would, 
he could not hear her message. I suppose there can be 
no sadder picture in the book of time than this denial 
by fate of the right to hear the last message of love from 
one passing off into the long journey from which there 
comes no report. Hopeless and bitter with disappoint- 
ment, the man found pencil and paper and a large book 
and gave them to the child. Sitting up in bed with a 
last painful effort the little one painfully wrote or 
printed a single sentence and gave it to him with her 
little face aflame with love. He hid the note in his 
pocket as his wife and the doctor came in — for the mes- 
sage from the unseen world seemed to him too sacred for 
other human eyes. 

The woman watched her husband closely and won- 
dered why he felt so cheerful as the days passed by. 
The little one was no longer with him, yet he went about 
his work with cheerfulness and often with a smile. She 
could not understand, but now and then she would see 
him take from his pocket an envelope, open it and read 
what seemed to be a letter. He would sometimes sit 
before the fire at night, silent and thoughtful. As she 
went about her work, she would see him take out this 
mysterious letter and read it over and over, as one would 
read a message from a friend very dear of old and 
happy days. And she wondered what it could be 
that brought the happy, beautiful smile to his face, and 
then there came the time when one evening in June the 



170 HOPE FARM NOTES 

sun seemed to pass behind the western hill with royal 
splendor. It seemed as if there had never been such 
gorgeous coloring as the western sky put on that night, 
and the practical wife looked from her back-door and 
saw her husband standing in the barnyard gate like one 
in a glorious vision. The cows stood in the lane, the 
empty milk pail hung on a post, yet the farmer stood 
gazing off to the west unheeding the call to his work. 
And as the woman waited she saw her dreaming hus- 
band take that mysterious letter from his pocket and 
read it once more. She could see the look of joy which 
spread over his face as he read it. And this plain, 
practical woman, moved by some sudden impulse, 
walked down to the gate and put her hand gently on her 
husband's shoulder. He started out of his dream and 
looked guiltily at the empty milk pail, but she only 
smiled and pointed to the paper he had in his hand. 
He hesitated shyly for a moment, and then he passed it 
to her. It was just the scrawl which the little child 
had written after her failure to make him hear. It was 
the last message from one who stood on the threshold 
of the unseen country, and was permitted to look within. 
And this was what the woman read, written in straggling 
childish letters : 

" I'll tell God how good you are." 

And the shy, unresponsive man and woman, starved 
of love and sympathy through all these years, standing 
in the lonely silence of that golden sunset knew that 
God's blessing had fallen upon them out of the unseen 
country through the influence of that little child. 



A DAY'S WOKK 

" Well, boys, I'm going to quit and call it a day ! " 
As the Hope Farm man spoke he got up from his knees 
in the strawberry patch and proceeded to straighten out 
his back. It was half past four on Saturday, September 
4. Our week's work was done — all but the chores. Our 
folks had picked and packed and shipped four big 
truckloads of produce, with a surplus of nearly 100 
bushels of apples and 60 baskets of tomatoes ahead for 
next week. This in addition to regular farm work — 
and one day off fishing for the boys. It does not seem 
possible that September has come upon us! I do not 
know how she even got here — yet the big hand on the 
clock's calendar points to that date. When the foolish 
finger of " daylight saving " appears on the clock we 
can discount it, but there is no discounting the mark on 
the calendar. That is like the finger of fate. Yet it 
seems out of date. We have not finished picking 
Gravenstein apples. In former years Labor Day found 
us clearing up the Mcintosh. This year we have not 
even touched them ! Last year the Mammoth sweet corn 
was about cleaned out in August. Now we are begin- 
ning to pick. The season and the calendar are fighting 
this year. Now if they will both turn in and hold Jack 
Frost up for a couple of weeks later than usual we will 
forgive the season. 

This morning I took this strawberry job from choice — 

171 



172 HOPE FARM NOTES 

surely no one else wanted it. Thomas had not come 
back from his night on the market. Philip cleaned up 
the chores, while the rest went to picking apples 
and tomatoes. My daughter goes across the lawn 
with 100 or more chickens at her heels. They are 
black Jersey Giants and R. I. Reds going to breakfast. 
Out on the cool back porch Mother is playing the part 
of family " Red." That is, she is canning tomatoes. 
This porch is screened in, and there is an oil stove to 
put heat into the canning outfit. The lady is peeling a 
basket of big red fruit; her hands and arms are well 
smeared with the blood — not of martyrs, but of tomatoes ! 
This job of mine would make one of those model gar- 
deners too disgusted for comment. We set out the 
strawberry plants in April, in rows three feet apart, the 
plants two feet in the row. The soil is strong, and we 
wanted to push it hard. So in part of the patch we 
planted early peas between the rows, and in the rest 
early potatoes. The theory of this plan is sound enough. 
You get a big crop of peas and potatoes, and take them 
out in time for the berry plants to run out and cover the 
patch. In practice this does not always work. While 
the pea and potato vines stood up straight we kept the 
patch clean. Then came a time when these vines fell 
down and refused to get up. Then came the constant 
rains and the crab grass, and weeds came from all over 
to seek shelter under these vines. Before we could inter- 
fere the patch was a mass of this foul stuff, and the 
long rains kept it growing. The richness of the soil 
delayed ripening of the potatoes, and by the time we got 
them out the strawberry plants seemed lost in the tangle. 



A DAY'S WORK 173 

Here I am cleaning up this mess. Most of the work 
must be done with the fingers — a hoe would tear up too 
many runners. You have to get down on your knees and 
pull. As I crawl across the patch I leave a pile of 
weeds behind me like a windrow. I hold up my fingers 
and it seems surprising that they are not worn down at 
least half an inch. If I had kept those peas and pota- 
toes out of here the berries would be far better, and I 
would not have this crawling job. I am not to be alone 
here after all. That big black chicken leaves his crowd 
on the lawn and comes over here to scratch beside me. 
The Jersey Giants are very tame and enterprising. This 
one stays right at my elbow for hours — the only member 
of my family to take this job from choice. He will 
have all the worms I can dig out ! 

There is a rattle and a sputter on the driveway and 
the truck comes snorting into the barnyard. At the 
same time Tom and Broker, the big grays, come down 
the hill with a load of apples. Tom scents the gasoline 
and pricks back his ears with a snort. You can see him 
turn his head as if talking to sober old Broker : 

" That fellow thinks he's smart, but what fearful 
breath he has ! For years we went on the road like hon- 
est horses and did all the marketing on the farm. Why 
does this man keep such a great awkward thing around ? 
It may have speed, but I'll bet it eats him out of house 
and home ! " 

" Well, now," said old Broker, " every horse to his 
job. Working right on this farm is good enough for 
me. Let that truck do the road work, says I. No place 
like home for an honest horse like me." 



174 HOPE FARM NOTES 

" Eot much. I like a little life now and then. I 
want to get out on the road among horses and see what is 
going on. That great, lazy, smelling thing has got us 
farm-bound where nobody sees us or knows what we are 
doing. And look at the gasoline that thing eats up, and 
its keep — my stars ! " 

"Well, you have something of an appetite yourself. 
A gallon of oats costs something, too. I'll bet this man 
can't feed and shoe and harness you for less than $200 
a year ! Let's be glad this thing takes some of the work 
off our shoulders ! " 

" But I saw this man's bill for repairs " — but there 
came a jerk on the lines and " Get up ! " and Tom put 
his mighty shoulders into the collar and pulled the load 
up to the shed, while the truck with a snort that sounded 
like a sneer moved on into the barn — just as if a re- 
pair bill for $273 was a very small matter. 

Thomas was tired — as you might expect after a night 
on the market. The load sold for $106.95. It was a 
mixture of corn, apples and tomatoes. That looks right 
at first thought, but one year ago the corresponding load 
of about the same class of goods brought $143. That 
is about the way they have gone this season. Our prices 
are certainly lower, and every item of cost is higher. 
There can be no question about that, yet our friends who 
buy food are paying as much as they ever did. But 
for the truck we would be worse off than we are now. 
We never could handle our crop with the horses. It is 
more and more necessary to get the goods right into 
market promptly and with no stop. While the truck 
has become a necessity, let no man think that it works 



A DAY'S WORK 175 

for nothing. Old Tom is right in saying that I have 
a bill for $273 for refitting the truck this year and put- 
ting it in shape for the season. That item alone will 
add quite a few cents to the cost of carrying each pack- 
age. Some of the smaller farmers on well-traveled 
roads are selling at roadside markets. This is a hard 
life, and includes Sunday work, and I understand that 
for some reason people are not buying such goods as 
they did. The retail trade is rarely satisfactory when 
one produces a fairly large crop. I think the plan for 
the future will mean a combination of farmers to open 
a store in the market town and retail and deliver their 
own goods co-operatively. 

My back feels as if there were three hard knots in 
it. I must straighten them out by a change of occupa- 
tion. I am going up on the hill to look at the apple 
picking for a time. Little Rose, barefooted and bare- 
headed, dressed in a pair of overalls, trots along with 
me. She eats two tomatoes on the way up, and then I 
find her a couple of mellow Mcintosh. The dirt on the 
tomatoes has been transferred to her little face, and I 
think some of it follows the apple into her mouth. Oh, 
well, these scientists will probably find vitamines in dirt 
before they are done. We are picking Gravensteins to- 
day — big rosy fellows — some of the trees running 15 
bushels or more. I planted a block of these trees as 
an experiment. Now I wish I had more of them. 
The last lot brought $5.25 per barrel. I do not care 
much for them for eating, but as baking apples they sell 
well. This year any big apple brings a fair price. For 
instance, that despised Wolf River has been our best 



176 HOPE FARM NOTES 

seller. The boys own several trees of Twenty Ounce, 
which are bringing about $20 per tree this year. Cherry- 
top is going to Paterson this afternoon to put some of 
his apple money into a bicycle. I have told in past 
years how I gave my boys a few bearing apple trees 
and how they have bought others. These trees have 
given surprising returns. The larger boy is just start- 
ing for college, and his trees will go a long way toward 
paying expenses. The objection to giving such trees or 
selling at a low price is that the boy finds the income 
very " easy money." It would be better for him to plant 
the young tree and stay by it till it comes in bearing. 
The only chemical I know of for extracting character 
out of money is warm sweat. I'd like to spend the 
day on the hills — here in the sunshine with the apples 
blushing on the trees and the grapes purpling on the 
walls and the clouds drifting over us. But that would 
never clean up those strawberries, and so little Rose and 
I go down on a load of apples — big Tom and Broker 
creeping down the steep hillside as if they realized that 
here was a job which the truck could not copy. 

I got at those weeds once more. Philip had carried 
several bushels to the geese, and these wise birds make 
much of them. The big sow, too, stands chewing a big 
red root as a boy would chew candy. Nearby on a 
grassy corner little Missy has been tied out. She is a 
very proud little cow, for just inside the barn her yellow 
daughter lies in the straw — pretending to chew her small 
cud. We shall have to call this young lady Sippi to 
complete her mother's name. Missy has given us a taste 
of real cream already. But here is a pull at my shoul- 



L 



A DAY'S WORK 177 

der, and little Rose, her face washed and hair brushed, 
comes to lead me in to dinner. There will be 14 of us 
today. I wish you could make it 15. The food is all 
on the table, so we can see what there is to start with. 
Have some of this soft hash. That means a hash baked 
in a deep dish, with considerable liquid in it. You 
may think we live on hash, but a busy Saturday is 
a good time for working up the odds and ends. Then 
you can have boiled potatoes, boiled beets, sweet corn, to- 
matoes, bread and butter, baked apples and all the milk 
you want. We are all hearty eaters, and I figure that 
if I took my family to the restaurant in the city where 
I sometimes have my dinner, the bill would be about as 
follows : 

Hash $4.20 

Potatoes 1.40 

Beets 1.40 

Sweet corn 3.60 

Tomatoes 1.40 

Milk 90 

Bread and butter 1.40 

Baked apples 2.30 

$16.60 
That is a very low estimate of what this dinner would 
cost us. Now what would a farmer get at wholesale 
for what we have eaten? Not quite $1.30 at the full 
limit. Last week I ordered a baked apple and was 
charged 30 cents for it ! But no matter what this din- 
ner would cost elsewhere, it is free here, and I hope 
you will have another baked apple. Try another glass 
of milk. Our folks have a way of pouring some of that 
thick cream in when they drink it. 



178 HOPE FARM NOTES 

That dinner provided heart and substance to all of 
us. I am back at those berries, and Philip has come 
to help me. Our folks have stopped picking apples for 
the day and will cut sweet corn fodder — where the ears 
have been picked off. That will have to be our " hay " 
this Winter. The women folks and a couple of the boys 
have started for town to do a little shopping. Philip and 
I have a pile of weeds here as large as a henhouse, and 
the strawberry plants as they come out of the tangle look 
better than I expected. A car has just rolled in with a 
family after apples. One well-groomed young man is 
viewing me appraisingly over his glasses. He is talking 
to the soft, fluffy young woman at his side. " Is that 
the Hope Farm man ? A rather tough-looking citizen ! 
Why does he do that very common work? He ought 
to hire that job done and get up out of that dirt! " 

This young man will never know what it will mean 
next Spring when the vines are full of big red berries 
to know that he saved them and with his own labor 
turned them from failure to success. He probably never 
will know any such feeling — and that is his misfortune. 
This weed-pulling gets to be mechanical. It doesn't 
require much thought and I have a chance to consider 
many things as we work. A short distance away is that 
patch of annual sweet clover. The plant we have been 
measuring is now 60 inches tall and still growing. The 
plants are seeding at different dates — some of them 
earlier than others. What a wonder this clover will be 
for those of us who have the vision to make use of it. 

But my day's work is over — I'm going to adjourn. 
I am quite sure that I could have picked 50 bushels of 



A DAY'S WORK 179 

Gravenstein apples from those low trees instead of 
working here, but this seemed to be my job for the day. 
What now? I'm going to make an application of hot 
water and get this soil off my hands and arms, shave, 
put on some clean clothes and take my book out on the 
front porch until the girls come home. What book? 
Well, I found in an old bookstore a copy of James G. 
Blaine's " Twenty Years of Congress." As I had just 
read Champ Clark's book I wanted to read Blaine's. 
I can well remember when about 40 per cent of the 
people of this country considered James G. Blaine a 
hero. The trouble was that about 60 per cent thought 
otherwise. His book is a sound and serious discussion 
of the legislation which covered the Civil War and 20 
years after. As I worked here today I have been think- 
ing of what Blaine says of Senator Matt Carpenter. 
This man was a brilliant student, but suddenly went 
blind. For three years he sat in darkness. Yet this 
affliction proved a great blessing, for he forced himself 
to review and analyze and prove what he had read, so 
that when sight came back to him his reasoning powers 
were remarkable. This book contains the best state- 
ment I have ever read of the reasons for trying to im- 
peach President Andrew Johnson, and how and why the 
effort failed. What's that got to do with farming? 
Well, I think the political events which clustered around 
that incident came about as near to smashing the Con- 
stitution and wrecking the Government as anything that 
has yet happened. But here comes Cherry-top on his 
new wheel. He actually got home ahead of the car. 
I must hurry, or our folks will not find that literary 



180 HOPE FARM NOTES 

reception committee waiting for them. Better come 
along with me. I have some other books that will make 
yon think, and I'll guarantee that thinking will do you 
more good right now than a day's work. 



PEOFESSOE GANDEE'S ACADEMY 

Our Thanksgiving turkey this year will be a goose — or 
rather a pair of geese. As you read this they will be 
browning and sizzling in the oven, with plenty of " sage 
and onion " to stuff in the desired quality. They will 
come to the table flanked by half a dozen vegetables and 
backed by several big pumpkin pies. I shall resign the 
position of carver, remembering my old experience with 
the roast duck and the minister. The duck got away 
from my knife, and slid all over the table, ending 
by upsetting the gravy in front of the minister's plate. 
After the usual objections Mother will apply the carving 
knife to the geese, secretly proud of her skill as an 
anatomist. She can do everything with a roasted goose 
except provide white meat. Since Nature decided not 
to implant that delicacy in the breast of a goose, man 
cannot supply it. Therefore the lady must content 
herself with brown meat. I'll guarantee that most 
blind men eating the white breast of a turkey and then 
the brown breast of a goose would call for more of the 
latter. It is something like this rather foolish prefer- 
ence for white-shelled eggs. Like " the Colonel's lady 
and Judy O'Grady," they are sisters under the shell! 
Anyway, a goose, well stuffed and roasted, is a thank- 
offering well suited to the Hope Farm table. 

No doubt as we pour the thick brown gravy over 
Mother's generous slices Mr. Gander will lead his 

181 



182 HOPE FARM NOTES 

family across the lawn and find something to be thank- 
ful for. I have learned, this Summer, to have great 
respect for Gander and his wife, the gray goose. Ma- 
ture may have left the white meat out of the goose in 
order to prepare a finer delicacy, hut she put an extra 
quantity of gray matter into the goose brain. It seems 
to me that Mr. Gander and his able assistant are about 
the most successful teachers of youth I have ever known. 
To many a learned educator I would say, " Go to the 
goose, thou wise man, and learn how to train the young 
for a successful life." Take this young bird, whose 
meat is rapidly disappearing from the Thanksgiving 
altar. Mother has scraped the bones nearly clean. 
What little remains will be boiled out as soup. This 
bird has lived what I may call an eminently successful 
life. He ends his career in the highest place possible 
to be conceived of in the philosophy of a goose. He 
was trained and educated from the start, and as I look 
at Gander and goose on the lawn I cannot think of 
any human teachers who have had any greater success 
in training their charges into just what a man or woman 
ought to be. 

In the Spring the gray goose selected a place in the 
old barn and laid 21 eggs. We rather expected more, 
but the goose was master of ceremonies. She came back 
to the same place each day, and finally we found her 
there hissing like the steam escaping from a broken pipe. 
It was her signal that she was ready to serve as incu- 
bator. So we put 13 eggs under her and eight more 
under a big Red hen. This big hen was a great failure 
as a layer, but as nurse and incubator she had proved a 



PROFESSOR GANDER'S ACADEMY 183 

wonder. She had raised three broods of chicks with 
great success. Surely she ought to be a better guide 
and teacher of youth than a young goose with her first 
brood! If you were selecting teachers for your chil- 
dren would you not choose those who have had experi- 
ence ? In due time, and on the same day, the goose 
walked out with 10 goslings, while the Red hen sat on 
her nest and compelled five to stay under her. The two 
broods kept apart. The hen was evidently disappointed 
with the way the goose handled children, and she pun- 
ished her brood whenever they tried to mingle with 
their own brothers and sisters. They all lived, but after 
about eight weeks I noticed a strange thing. The hen's 
brood, though eating the same food, would average at 
least 30 per cent lighter than the goslings which ran 
with the goose. There was no question about it — the 
hen's charges were inferior in size and weight and in 
" common sense," or the art of looking out for them- 
selves. 

There being no chance for an argument about it, I 
concluded that it was very largely a matter of educa- 
tion, and we began to study the methods of teaching 
employed by Mr. and Mrs. Gander and Mrs. Red Hen. 
The first thing we noticed was the influence of the male 
side of the family. Roger Red, the big rooster, paid 
no attention to his wife's family. All he did was to 
mount the fence and crow, or go gallivanting off after 
worms or seeds. If one of the goslings got in his way 
he kicked it to one side and gave not even a suggestion 
to his busy wife. He was like one of those men who will 
not even wheel the baby carriage, but make the wife 



184 HOPE FARM NOTES 

carry the child. On the other hand, Mr. Gander was 
a true head of the family. He kept right with the 
goose, brooded part of the flock at night, fought off rats 
and even a weasel, and was ready to battle with a hawk 
or a cat. In time of danger the rooster ran for shelter, 
but the gander stepped right out in front of his brood 
with his wing extended like a prizefighter's arm, and 
that great bill open to nip a piece of flesh out of the 
enemy. He taught his children to graze on weeds 
and grass. When anyone forgot to feed them the 
gander wasted no time in complaint. He led his family 
right into the garden, where they picked up their share. 
He led the goslings through the wet grass and into the 
brook, where they cleaned out all the watercress and 
weeds. On the other hand, the hen hung around the 
barnyard and cried if breakfast did not come on time. 
She would not let her children wade through the wet 
grass or get into the water, and she did not know that a 
young goose can eat grass like a calf. The hen worried 
herself insane when her family followed the natural in- 
stincts of geese and headed for the brook. 

Now, Mrs. Hen is not the first teacher who has failed 
to understand the first law of education — to train a child 
properly you must understand his natural instincts 
and tendencies and build upon them. For many gen- 
erations the hen has feared water, and has been taught 
that all feathered young must be kept away from it. I 
have no doubt that a race of swimming hens could be 
developed, provided the fear of water could be taken 
from the mind of the hen. For the hen must swim with 
her mvnd before she can swim with her feet! I have 



PROFESSOR GANDER'S ACADEMY 185 

seen many cut-and-dried teachers as much afraid of the 
truth as this big Red hen was afraid of water. At any 
rate, we learned why one set of goslings was far superior 
to the other. One set had the benefit of father's ex- 
ample and influence. Their teacher knew from long 
experience just what a young goose ought to know. The 
teacher knew that because she had been a goose her- 
self, and could remember her youth. The hen's brood 
knew nothing of their father's example — no more than 
some little humans who only seem to know there is a 
man in the world who claims to be the detached head of 
the family. The hen's goslings were brought up in one 
of these beheaded families. Their teacher ranked as a 
successful educator, but as she had never been a young 
goose herself she could not teach her children what they 
ought to know. It was not unlike trying to make a 
blacksmith out of a poet, or a drygoods salesman out of 
a natural farmer. These feathered children were fed 
and warmed and defended, but they could not make 
perfect geese because they were not trained to work out 
a goose job. 

The result was clearly evident. The young geese 
under the hen were undersized and fell into the hen 
character. After centuries of domestication or slavery 
the average hen loses the independence of the wild bird. 
Now and then a nobler specimen will feel some dormant 
brain cell thrill within her, remember the freedom of 
centuries ago and fly into the trees, but for the most 
part the modern hen is a selfish, fawning, tricky crea- 
ture. She drives her family away as soon as the chil- 
dren become tiresome, and there is little or no real 



186 HOPE FARM NOTES 

community life among hens. When their usual food is 
not forthcoming all but a few adventurous spirits stand 
slouching about waiting for help. Thus the goslings 
were taught to fawn upon man for their food and reject 
their brothers and sisters in the other brood. It was an 
unnatural life for a goose, and these little ones could 
not thrive under such training. On the other hand, Mr. 
Gander's pupils were taught by an expert on goose 
training. They were taught to swim, to bathe in the wet 
grass, to eat grass or hay, to get out and find their own 
breakfast if man did not do his duty. As a result they 
grew up with strong independence of character. While 
the others might fawn and beg for food, the gander's 
class were taught to scorn such subservient behavior. 
And they were taught family life and co-operation. 
While the hens separate and lead their selfish, separate 
lives, the geese live in a group. There they go now in 
a solid bunch across the lawn. Throw a stick into a flock 
of hens or let a dog run at them, and they will scatter 
in all directions. Try the same with a flock of young 
geese, and they will line up in solid array " all for each 
and each for all." I do not know of anything finer in 
the education of geese or children than this thorough 
idea of co-operation. In the future those groups which 
are taught like the geese will rule the nation. Those 
which are taught to fear strange things or live the selfish 
life of a hen will always serve. In other words, the 
future of this country depends on its teachers and their 
wisdom? You are right! 

But the real, final test of a goose's education is made 
with the carving-knife. Judging from the empty plates 



PROFESSOR GANDER'S ACADEMY 187 

I think this one will pass a good examination. If I am 
not mistaken this was one of the hen's goslings. When 
we saw that their teacher was a failure we put them into 
Mr. Gander's class. He looked them over and knocked 
them down with his wing a few times. Then he put his 
wise head to one side as if to say: 

" I'll do my best with them. They have been spoiled, 
and I must take some of the conceit out of them first. 
If the law forbidding corporal punishment holds in 
New Jersey I will resign the task, because no goose 
can ever live a successful life unless those foolish hen 
ideas are whipped out of him. And another thing: I 
won't have that Red hen bothering around me. The 
influence of a foolish mother is the worst thing a teacher 
has to contend with. I'll try to make geese out of them, 
but keep that hen away ! " 

The Red hen put up a great cry for a time. She ran 
out and called for her " darling children " to leave 
those low companions. The goose took those " darling 
children " right by the tail feathers and pulled them 
back. The gander waddled up to the hen and took one 
nip which sent her squawking to the barnyard, where the 
big rooster was challenging the world. 

" I've been insulted ! " she screamed, " and my dear 
children have been stolen from me. If you have the 
courage of a mouse you will defend your wife ! " 

" Where is he ? " roared the rooster, and he started 
on a run for the orchard. There was the goose with all 
her children at school, and right in front was the gander 
with his great beak open and that right wing all unslung 
for a blow. The rooster got within about six feet of 



188 HOPE FARM NOTES 

him and then halted. He didn't like the looks of that 
sharp beak. 

" Good-morning, Mr. Gander ! I saw you over in the 
next field, and I came to ask how the worms are running 
over there ! " 

As he went back the rooster, after the manner of hus- 
bands generally, sought to pacify his wife. 

" After all, your children are in a good school, and 
you will now have more time for your neglected house- 
hold duties. Nursing those children has been a hard 
strain on you. Now for a little recreation ! " 

From my own experience I can testify that Professor 
Gander is right. Eo one can train a child properly if 
the mother is foolish naturally, and seeks to interfere 
with the child's education. Those who undertake to 
" take a child " into their family may well take heed 
from Professor Gander. It were far better that such 
a child never saw his mother again. She may easily 
ruin the life which she brought into the world. 

But at any rate, this bird on the table was well edu- 
cated to live the perfect life of a goose. Have another 
slice! I know you can eat another helping of this 
dressing. Pass back your plate. Of course I know 
Mother would like to hold that other goose back for a 
later meal, but that is not the true Thanksgiving spirit. 
Pass back for another slice and I will use my influence 
with the housekeeper to carve the second goose. Its 
education has been finished. 



COLONEL O'BRIEN AND SERGEANT HILL 

I imagine that most of us, at one time or another, ex- 
pect to set the world on fire. So we start what we con- 
sider a nice little blaze and stand back to see it spread. 
Eor we think the world is as dry as a stack of hay in a 
drought — only needing our little flare of flame to start 
it going. We find the world more like a soggy swamp. 
It does not flare up — our little blaze strikes the wet 
spots, and not having heat enough to dry out the water 
it comes to an end. Missionaries who have been among 
the savage tribes of Africa say that the most wonderful 
thing to the average savage is the simple act of striking 
a match. These men and their ancestors have for cen- 
turies obtained fire only after long and patient rubbing 
of two sticks together. Often many hours of this 
laborious friction were needed before they could obtain 
even a glow at the end of a stick, and then nurse it into 
flame. Here at one scratch this " magic stick " pro- 
duced the effect of hours of hard toil ! One savage stole 
a box of matches and undertook to " show off " before 
his friends. He could start the little flame of the match 
well enough, but he tried to make a fire out of big logs 
or damp sticks, direct from the match. Of course, the 
little match flame could only spread to things of its 
own size. You cannot jump flame from a glimmer to a 
giant log unless the latter is full of oil or gunpowder. 
Two things have brought that to mind recently. My 

189 



190 HOPE FARM NOTES 

young friend, Henry Barkman, came the other day with 
an oration which he was to deliver before some political 
society. When a man is well satisfied with his own 
literary production, he goes about shedding the evi- 
dence of his admiration. When you come to be as old as 
I am, you will recognize the signs. I knew Henry 
felt that he had produced a world-beater — one of those 
great bursts of mental flame which every now and then 
set the world on fire. Yet no honest person, except per- 
haps his mother or sister or sweetheart, would imagine 
that society would stumble or even pause for an instant 
at its delivery. Henry would deliver it with a loud 
voice and many gestures, and then wait for the world to 
blaze up. When there was no blaze he would feel that 
he had been casting pearls before swine, when in truth 
he had thrown his match into a soggy pile of large 
sticks, where it sputtered for a moment and then flick- 
ered out. Youth cannot understand how long years of 
drudgery are required to split and splinter those big 
sticks and dry them out with the fire of faith before the 
match can start the blaze, and then in after years the 
man who throws in the match gets the credit which 
belongs to the patient workers, who have been silently 
splitting and drying the wood. I tried to tell Henry 
that when Lincoln delivered his speech at Gettysburg 
few people realized that it was to become a classic. A 
new generation with the power to look back through the 
mellowing haze of the years was needed to give it a full 
place in the American mind. Henry could not see it. 
When did youth ever know the back-looking vision of 
age ? It is a wise thing that youth must ever look ahead. 



COLONEL O'BRIEN AND SERGEANT HILL 191 

I had all these things in mind as we came to the 
last lap of our journey to Starkville, Miss. That pleas- 
ant town lies west of the Mobile & Ohio Railroad — 
on a side road of its own. When I went there 37 years 
ago the track wound on through what seemed like a 
wilderness, with here and there a negro cabin. Now it 
seemed like one continuous stretch of farm villages or 
blue grass pastures. In former years the streets of 
Starkville were just ribbons of mud or dust, as the 
seasons determined. I knew a man who came to town in 
November and bought an empty wagon. He could not 
haul it home until the following April, so deep was the 
mud. Now the main street was as smooth and solid 
as Broadway, and firm stone roads branched out into 
the country in all directions. The streets were thickly 
lined with cars. Here, as in Kentucky, I saw men 
riding on genuine saddle horses, which shuffled quickly 
along like a rocking-chair on four animated legs. It 
seemed like a moving-picture show taken from some 
old fairy tale, and it is no wonder that the years fell 
away and I went back in memory to those old days. 

It was in 1883 that I was graduated at an agri- 
cultural college and went down to " reform and uplift 
the South." Since then I have heard the motive or 
spirit of such a wildcat enterprise variously called 
" cheek," " gall," " nerve," " assurance " or " foolish- 
ness," with various strong adjectives pinned to the lat- 
ter! Yet, looking back upon it now, I feel that while 
perhaps all these terms were appropriate, they do not 
cover the essential thing. I had a smattering of such 
science as could be taught in those days. I had a great 



192 HOPE FARM NOTES 

abiding faith in the power of education to lift men up 
and set them free. A few years before I had given up 
the thought of ever being anything except an ordinary 
workman, because I had had no training which fitted 
me to do anything well. It seemed to me that the agri- 
cultural college had given me almost the miraculous 
help which came to the man with the darkened mind. 
Who could blame youth for feeling that the great joy 
and power of education could actually remove moun- 
tains of depression and trouble? I had been told that 
the chief assets of Mississippi were " soil, climate, char- 
acter and the determination of a proud and well-bred 
race to train their hands to labor ! " That was surely 
in line with my stock of material assets, and so I came 
to set the South on fire with ambition and vision. 

Well do I remember the day I walked into the little 
brick building where The Southern Live Stock Journal 
was printed. Colonel O'Brien and Sergeant Hill looked 
me over. Colonel O'Brien was tall and straight — every 
inch a soldier. Sergeant Hill was short and fat. You 
would not think it, but he was with Forrest when they 
captured Fort Pillow. Sergeant Hill's remark was: 

" Another one of them literary cranks, I'll bet." 

Colonel O'Brien was more practical. 

" Come out and feed the press and then fold these 
papers." 

And almost before I knew it my job of uplifting 
the South was on. I suppose you might call me a " use- 
ful citizen." I fed the press, set type, swept the office, 
did the mailing, acted as fighting editor, tried to sing in 
the church choir ; taught " elocution," pitched baseball 






COLONEL O'BRIEN AND SERGEANT HILL 193 

on the town nine and filled columns of the paper with 
soul-stirring editorials. At least, they stirred me if they 
had no effect upon any other reader. Those were the 
days when living was a joy. Some days there would be 
a little run of subscriptions and perhaps a big adver- 
tisement would come. Now and then some ball club 
would come to town and our boys would send them home 
in defeat and disgrace. These occasions were bright 
spots on the calendar, but they were as nothing in the 
bright lexicon of youth to the great editorials I ground 
out at that battered and shaky table in the corner. 
Among other things I broke a labor strike in that town, 
alone and unassisted. It was the talk of the town, but 
to me it seemed a very poor thing beside the great edi- 
torial on " The South's Future/' which I wrote on that 
stormy day in Christmas week. 

It comes back to me now as I write this. In those 
days everybody " knocked off " during Christmas week 
and we printed no paper. Yet we all seemed to come to 
the shop a few hours each day as part of our " holiday." 
It was cold and wet, with mud nearly to your hips. 
Colonel O'Brien had started a fire in the fireplace, and 
he and Sergeant Hill stood before it smoking their 
pipes and telling war stories. Colonel O'Brien was tell- 
ing how he heard the soldiers around their fires at night 
saying it was " a rich man's war and a poor man's 
fight." Sergeant Hill told about the Indian who went 
after the molasses and glue to make into printer's roll- 
ers, and how in consequence the Yankees captured the 
printing outfit. I must tell you that story some day. 
And while these two old vets kept down on the ground 



194 HOPE FARM NOTES 

in thought I was up on the heights developing a glorious 
future for the " Sunny South." And at the last flourish 
of the pen I cleared my throat and read it to these old 
soldiers. And, honestly, I did not get the humor of it. 
These two men had given all they had of youth, ambi- 
tion, money and hope to their section. They must walk 
softly all their remaining days amid the ruins and the 
melancholy of defeat. And here was I without the 
least conception of what life must have meant to the 
Southern people, with the enthusiasm of a boy, pouring 
out dreams of a future which seemed even beyond the 
vision of an Isaiah. Great is youth and glorious are its 
prophetic visions. At any rate, the old soldiers let their 
pipes go out as they listened. 

" Fine," said Sergeant Hill. " Splendid. I reckon 
you'll have us all in Heaven 40 years hence ? " 

" Fine," said Colonel O'Brien. " Fine. I hope I'll 
be here to see it; but today I saw that paper collector 
from New Orleans in town. We can't pay his bill. 
He'll have to leave on the night train. Better shut up 
the office." And they tramped out into the mud, and I 
knew that as they plowed up the street they were look- 
ing at each other as men do when they feel a pity for 
some weak-minded lunatic who has stepped out in front 
of the crowd with a thought or an act that is called 
unorthodox. And I locked the door and sat before the 
fire polishing that editorial. Collectors might pound 
on the door, paper and ink might run short — what were 
these poor material things to one whose winged thoughts 
were to save the country % Surely, I had it all planned 
out that night, and went home, rising far up above the 



COLONEL O'BRIEN AND SERGEANT HILL 195 

fog and rain, and bumping my head against the stars ! 
Do I not know just how Henry Barkman felt about 
his great oration? Heaven give him the philosophy to 
endure with patience the day which finally came to me 
when I had to realize that I was not an uplifter, after 
all! And yet cursed be he who would, with a sneer, 
deny to youth the glorious foolishness with which he 

" Longs to clutch the golden keys ; 
To mold the mighty state's decrees 
And shape the whisper of the throne ! " 

And now, 37 years after, there is nothing left of all 
these dreams. Colonel O'Brien and Sergeant Hill have 
answered the last call. 

" They know at last whose cause was right 
In God the Father's sight!" 

Old Sol, the black man who turned the press, has 
passed on with them. Years ago The Southern Live 
Stock Journal was absorbed by a stronger publication. 
It is doubtful if in all the town or country you could 
find an old copy of the paper. Those great editorials 
which I climbed into the clouds to write were evidently 
too thin and light for this world. They have all sailed 
away far from the mind of man. The little building 
where we started the candle flame which was to burn 
up all the prejudice and depression in the South seems 
to be occupied as a negro hotel or boarding house. The 
little shop where (with Sol on the crank of the press and 
I feeding in the papers) we turned out what we felt 
to be a mental feast, is now a kitchen where cow peas, 



196 HOPE FARM NOTES 

bacon and greens and corn bread form a more substan- 
tial food than we ever served up in printer's ink. It 
was no longer a molder of public opinion. 

" To what base uses we may return, Horatio." 

And yet the sky was blue, the day was fair — the 
vision had come true. I wished that Colonel O'Brien 
and Sergeant Hill might stand in front of the old build- 
ing and look about them. ]STo longer a sea of mud, but 
smooth, firm pavements. The sidewalks were lined 
with cars. Beautiful trees shaded the streets, until the 
town seemed like a New England village with six gen- 
erations behind it. Outside, stretching away in every 
direction, was the thick, beautiful carpet of blue grass 
and clover. Here and there was a young man in the 
uniform of the American Union. In the vaults of the 
banks were great bundles of Liberty bonds. And a 
gray-haired man on the street corner told me this: 

" You will find that the very States which sixty years 
ago tried to break up the Union will, in the future, 
prove to be the very ones which must hold it to- 
gether." 

Yet let me tell Henry Barkman and the millions who 
felt as he did about his oration, that no one in all that 
town remembered my former editorials or the great 
work of the Journal. My literary work has been blown 
away as completely as the clouds among which it was 
composed. At the end of the great college commence- 
ment exercises a man came on the stage with a great 
bunch of flowers and bowed in my direction. I am not 
much in the habit of having verbal bouquets fired at me, 
but I will confess that I thought : " Here is where my 



COLONEL O'BRIEN AND SERGEANT HILL 197 

soul-inspiring editorial work is appreciated. All things 
come round to him who will but wait." 

But this orator, like the rest of them, never dreamed 
that I ever tried to "uplift the South." He said I 
entered into the young life of the town and was remem- 
bered with affection because I played baseball with skill 
and taught that community how to pitch a curved ball ! 

And let me say to the Henry Barkmans who read this 
that the lesson of all this is the truest thing I know. 
Many a man has gone out into life like a knight on a 
crusade, armed with what he thinks are glorious 
weapons. In after years people cannot remember what 
his weapons were, but he got into their hearts with some 
simple, common thing which seemed foolish beside his 
great deeds. Nobody remembered my brain children, 
though they were embalmed in ink and cradled in a 
printing press. But I put a twist on a baseball, over- 
came the force of gravity and made the ball dodge 
around a corner, and my memory remains green for 40 
years ! Not one of my old subscribers spoke of the 
paper, but seven of the old baseball club, gray or bald, 
near-sighted or rheumatic, yet still with the old flame of 
youth, got together. 

I think you older people will get my point. For the 
benefit of Henry Barkman and his friends perhaps I 
can do no better than to quote the following: 

" God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to 
confound the wise; and God hath chosen the weak things 
of the world to confound the things that are mighty/' 



HOW THE OTHEK HALF LIVES 

" Then I began to think that it is very true which is 
commonly said, that the one-half of the world hnoweth 
not how the other half liveth/' 

That was written by Erangois Kabelais over 500 years 
ago. It is so true that it has entered the language as a 
proverb, or " old saying." We hear it again and again 
in all classes of society. It is true that the great ma- 
jority of us has no idea of the life or the life ambitions 
of the great world outside of our own little valley of 
thought. I suppose this failure to understand the 
" other half " is one of the things which do most to 
keep people apart and prevent anything like fair co- 
operation. It is the basis of most of the bitter intolerance 
which has ever been used by the " ruling classes " to 
keep the great mass of the people in subjection. Years 
ago some old lord or baron would build a strong castle 
on a hill and make the farmers for miles around be- 
lieve that he " protected " them. Therefore, they built 
his castle free, gave their sons for his soldiers, and toiled 
on the land that he might live in idleness. And what 
did he " protect " them from ? Why, from another 
group of farmers a few miles away, who, in like manner, 
were supporting another idle gang of cutthroats in an- 
other strong castle. These two groups of farmers did 
not need to be " protected " from each other. They 
had the same needs, the same wrongs and the same de- 

198 



HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVES 199 

sires. Left to understand each other and to work to- 
gether, they would have had no trouble, but would have 
led happier and far more prosperous lives. As it was 
they did not understand " how the other half liveth," 
and thus they fought when they should have frater- 
nized. 

I find much of the same feeling between city people 
and farmers — consumers and producers. They do not 
understand how " the other half liveth," and they find 
fault when they should from every point of economy 
work together. Your city man thinks the farmer has a 
soft job, and that with present high prices he is making 
a barrel of money. Either that or he is a slow-thinking 
drudge — a sort of inferior being, who doesn't know any 
better than to carry the load which others strap on his 
back. He is " the backbone of the country " all right 
in a political campaign — but the backbone is merely 
a mechanical contrivance if you detach it from the 
brain. And the average farmer regards the city worker 
or commuter as a grafter — getting far more than he 
earns, and putting in short, easy days. It isn't all graft 
and ease by a long way. Many of these city workers 
must travel miles to their jobs, and some of them put 
in longer hours than the average farmer. Many of them 
save little or nothing, and the wolf is always prowling 
around the door. Between these two classes it is a case 
of not knowing " how the other half liveth," and this 
failure to understand has created a form of intolerance 
which separates two classes about as the old barons sepa- 
rated the groups of farmers years ago. 

And something of the same lack of tolerant under- 



200 HOPE FARM NOTES 

standing has separated classes of farmers. The grain 
farmers, live-stock men, dairymen, gardeners and fruit 
growers all think at times that they have the hardest 
lot. The labor question, the markets or the weather all 
seem to turn against them. For instance, the dairy- 
men usually think their lot is harder than that of others. 
They must work day after day in all sorts of weather 
and under hard conditions. I know about this, for I 
have worked on a dairy farm where conditions were very 
hard. Yet I also know that at this season the average 
dairyman has a good job compared with the life of the 
market gardener or fruit grower. On our own farm 
it has rained each day and night for many days. Get 
into a sweet corn or tomato field and pick the crop in a 
pouring rain, or pick early apples while the foliage is 
like a great sponge. Then sort out and pack, load the 
truck and travel through the rain to market, stand out 
in the rain and sell the load out to peddlers and dealers, 
and then hurry back home for another round of the 
same work. The fruit and vegetables are nearly as per- 
ishable as milk, and must be rushed promptly away. 
The dairyman knows beforehand what his milk will 
bring. The price may not be what he thinks is right, 
but he knows for weeks or months in advance what he 
can surely expect. We never know when we start what 
our stuff will bring. We must take what we can get 
for perishable fruit. We know what we have already 
spent, and what each load must bring in order to get 
our money back. Thus far corn is about equal in price 
to last year, tomatoes are lower, apples are at least 30 
per cent lower, and so on. The dairyman has his trou- 



HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVES 201 

bles, but let him follow this job for a month and he 
would realize that " there are others." In much the 
same way I can show that the potato men, the hay and 
grain farmers, the sheep men and all the rest, have 
their troubles — and hard ones at that. If farmers could 
only understand these things better, and realize that 
there are thorns and tacks in every so-called " soft job," 
there would be greater tolerance in the world, and that 
is the only thing that can ever lead to true co-operation 
and fair treatment. 

Pretty much the same thing is true of business. We 
ran upon a strange incident the other day. The city of 
Paterson, E". J., is a good market town. Work is well 
paid and the workmen are free spenders. It is a city of 
many breeds and races of men. On the market you will 
probably hear more languages and dialects than were 
used on the Tower of Babel. A large share of farm 
produce is distributed by peddlers — most of them of 
foreign blood. They are shrewd and tireless workers. 
I never can see when they sleep. Night after night they 
come on the market to buy produce, and day after day — 
through heat and cold, rain or shine- — you see them driv- 
ing their horses up and down the streets and lanes — 
always good-natured, always with a smile. Well, we 
sold Spot, our black cow, to one of these men — an 
Italian. Thomas had done business with him for some 
years. We had sold him many goods — he had always 
paid for them. He made part payment for the cow by 
giving about the most remarkable looking check I ever 
saw. It was on a first-class bank made out in a 
straggling hand, and signed by two names. We had 



202 HOPE FARM NOTES 

passed several like it before through our bank, so 
I deposited it, as usual. In a few days it came 
back unpaid. 

Thomas and I went to Paterson that night to see what 
was wrong. I wish some of you whose lives have been 
spent entirely in the country could see how this " other 
half liveth." This man lived on a side street. The 
lower part of his house had been fitted as a little store. 
In the small backyard were several milk goats, a small 
flock of chickens and a shed, in which were two horses. 
Under a small, rude shelter of boards was old Spot, 
chewing away at green cornstalks. The man was a big, 
pleasant-faced Italian. You would mark him for an 
honest man on his appearance. There was a brood of 
children — eight or nine, I should say — and a pleasant- 
faced little wife, who carried the latest arrival around 
at her work. When confronted with the protested check, 
this man merely smiled and waved his hands. He could 
not read it ! Two small boys — the oldest perhaps 12 
years of age — seemed to be the only members of the 
family who could read and write English. They read 
the protest paper to their father and made him under- 
stand. He only smiled and spread out his hands as 
people do who talk with their shoulders. These two 
little boys had made out the check and signed it for 
their parents. They either did not figure out their 
bank balance, or figured it wrong. There was no attempt 
at dishonesty, and the check would finally be honored. 
That seemed to be all there was to it. These little boys, 
through the public school, represented all that these older 
people know of the great business life of America. 



HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVES 203 

I know a good many Americans whose pedigrees run 
back close to Plymouth Rock. If some of them had 
let that check go in this way I should have loaded old 
Spot right on the truck and carried her home. Thomas 
knew this man and his reputation, and his way of doing 
business. He will pay, and in a few days of peddling he 
will pad out his bank account and then the check will 
go through. So we shook hands with him and came 
home. But that is the way " the other half liveth." 
This man and woman came to a strange land too late 
in life to acquire a business education. They can work 
and plan, but must depend upon those little boys to 
do business which requires bookkeeping or banking. All 
the boys know about American business is what they 
learn at the public schools. I wish you could have 
seen the way that check was made out — yet any old 
piece of paper may be worth more than a gold-plated 
certificate if there is genuine character back of it. I 
am told that in most mill towns the banks carry a good 
many accounts just like this one; in fact, a good pro- 
portion of the business is conducted in about that way. 
It is said that some of the smaller manufacturers do not 
keep any set of books which enable them to figure their 
income tax! There are some men who could not buy 
a cow or a cat from us on credit, while others could 
have what credit they need right on their face and repu- 
tation. 

There is another thing about this trade that will 
interest dairymen. We found old Spot giving about 18 
quarts of milk per day, on a feed of green cornstalks and 
a little grain. This milk will sell for 18 cents, at least 



204 HOPE FARM NOTES 

The cow can live in that little shed until the middle 
of December, or about 120 days. In that time she will 
give 1,500 quarts or more, which, at 18 cents, means 
$270, and she can then be sold for at least $90 for 
beef! That makes $360 gross income for one cow in 
four months. Her feed will be mostly refuse tops and 
stalks from vegetables and a small amount of grain. 
She will be well cared for, carded and brushed every 
day, and made comfortable. Thus not half the cows 
know " how the other half liveth." Someone will take 
these figures, multiply them by 25, and show what tre- 
mendous incomes our dairymen are making. The fact 
is this man can keep just one cow at a profit. If he 
kept two the extra cost of food would about eat up 
his profits. So we went whirling home through the 
dusk, thinking that we had had a glimpse at a little of 
the life of the other half, and it made me feel something 
more of charity for my fellow men. When you come to 
think of what the American public school means to that 
family, you realize the immense responsibility that goes 
with education. We can hardly be too careful about 
what our schools teach and how they teach it. I won- 
der how many of us, if we were transplanted to some 
foreign land, would be willing to turn our business over 
to our children and let them conduct it as they learned 
to do it from the schools ! I think we would all be more 
tolerant and reasonable if we would let our children 
bring to us more of the spirit of youth and more of 
hope of the future. The rain had stopped, the sky had 
cleared, the wind had dried the grass, and on the lawn 
in front of the house our great army of children were 



HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVES 205 

dancing and playing as if there were no such thing as 
tomato rot, wet corn and low prices. I think that these 
handicaps would have seemed much lighter if we could 
have gone out and danced with the kids. I wonder 
where, along the road, we gave up doing that. 



THE INDIANS WON 

Thanksgiving is a time for physical feasting and men- 
tal fasting. By the latter I mean trying to think out 
some of the problems of life which come as a sort of 
shade when we remember all our mercies. A bunch of 
these problems came up to me through a cloud of memo- 
ries as I sat with my feet on the concrete and my collar 
turned up. 

It was a gray, raw, miserable day — good Indian 
weather as it turned out. It seemed as if the sun had 
covered its face with a blanket in one of those fits of 
depression when the impulse is to hide the face from 
human eyes. Some 12,000 people were grouped — piled 
up tier above tier — around a great field marked out 
with long white stripes. It was a cold crowd, for all 
had their feet on a concrete floor. At one side a devoted 
little band of college boys screamed and sang their 
songs, but for the most part this great crowd sat cold- 
eyed and impartial. At one side of the field there was 
a dash of bright color where a group of stolid Indians 
sat wrapped in big red blankets. Just across from these 
was another group of men with green blankets. Be- 
tween them in the center of the field was a tangled mass 
of 22 husky boys in red or green, all fighting for the 
possession of a football. 

Ah, a football game! What is this so-called farmer 
doing, wasting part of the price of a barrel of apples 

206 



THE INDIANS WON 207 

when he ought to be at work ? Of course it is my privi- 
lege to say, " That's my business if I want to," but I 
will answer by saying that I was renewing my youth 
and studying human nature. You can't improve on 
either operation for a man of my age. Up some 250 
miles nearer the Canadian line the boy had been one 
of the 1,000 yelling young maniacs who sent these 
green-clad boys down to meet the Indians. He could 
not come, but he wrote me, " Be sure to see the game ; 
it will be a peach/' As a peach grower, I am interested 
in all new varieties, and this certainly turned out to be 
one. It must be said that these green-clad boys came 
down out of their hills with a haughty spirit, wearing 
pride as conspicuously as they will wear their first high 
hat. They had not lost a game, but had trampled over 
two of the greatest colleges in the country. They repre- 
sented the section where the purest-bred white Ameri- 
cans are to be found. One more victory and no one 
could deny their boast that they could stand any other 
football team on its head. So they came marching out 
on the field, very airy, very confident, and fully con- 
vinced of the great superiority of the white man ! 

I know very little about football. When I played it 
was more like a game of tag than a human battering 
ram. Here, however, was a round of the great human 
game which would make anyone thoughtful. Here were 
representatives of two races about to grapple. The great 
majority of the white thousands who watched them 
were unconcerned — for a New York audience is com- 
posed of so many races and tongues that it has little 
sentiment. All around me, however, there seemed stand- 



208 HOPE FARM NOTES 

ing up hundreds of swarthy, dark men whose eyes glit- 
tered as they watched the game. You could not realize 
how many there were with Indian and Negro blood 
until such a test of the white and red races was pre- 
sented. Then you began to realize what a race question 
really means when the so-called inferior race gets a 
chance to test its real manhood on terms of equality. 

It would have made a theme for a great historian as 
these young men lined up for the game. The whites 
trotted out confident and proud. Why not ? The " bet- 
ting " favored them, their record was superior, as their 
race was supposed to be. The Indians slouched to their 
places and shambled through their motions, silent and 
without great show of confidence. It came to me as not 
at all unlikely that a few centuries before the ancestors 
of these boys had faced each other under very different 
circumstances. Francis Parkman, the historian, tells of 
a famous battle in the upper Connecticut Valley. The 
white settlers had built a stockade as protection against 
roving bands of French and Indians. One day this fort 
was attacked by such a band, which had come down 
the valley capturing prisoners and booty. It was a sav- 
age fight, but the white men held their own, and finally a 
Frenchman came forward with a white flag for a parley. 
He actually offered to buy a supply of corn, as they 
were out of food, and then to retreat. In that gray mist, 
with my feet on the concrete, I could shut my eyes and 
see the ancestors of these football players. Stern white 
men, gun in hand, peering over the stockade, and silent 
red men creeping noiselessly out of the forest to pile up 
their booty in sight — as price for the corn. The frost 



THE INDIANS WON 209 

on the leaves told them that Winter with all its cold 
and peril was approaching. Here were the necessities 
of life — a tremendous bargain. Yet back in the shadow 
of the woods were the captives — men, women and 
children — and the white settlers held out for them. 
For at that time, if not now, New England knew the 
value of a man to the nation. He was far above the 
dollar, even though the women and children would be 
a care and a danger. 

In a way, something of the spirit of those grim old 
fighters lay in the hearts of these green-clad boys who 
had come down from these historic old hills. At that 
instant, at least, they, too, knew the value of a man. It 
was expressed by their little band of singers and cheer- 
ers led by the writhing " cheer leaders " — the glory and 
fame of the good old college on the hill. You could not 
have bought one of these boys for $1,000,000. 

On the other hand, these shambling and big-boned 
Indians seemed to have something of the same spirit in 
their hearts. Silent and impassive, they seemed for the 
moment to have cast off their college training and gone 
back to the free, wild life, only carrying the discipline 
which authority and college training had given them. 
I wonder if any of these red men thought as they lined 
up on that field that it was the lack of just this stern 
discipline which lost them this country and nearly 
wiped out their race ? Men fitted to play this game of 
football never would have given away Manhattan Island, 
or permitted a handful of white men to drive them from 
the coast. Over 1,000 men, each with the burning drop 
of Indian or Negro blood in his veins, were hoping and 



210 HOPE FARM NOTES 

praying that in this modern battle the red men would 
humble the pride of Manhattan, as their ancestors had 
lost the island. Out of the gray mist there seemed to 
stride ghosts of stout Dutchmen and thin Yankees and 
silent, noiseless Indians to watch this fairer combat. 

At the signal the ball was kicked far down the field 
by a white man whose ancestors may have come with 
Hendrik Hudson. It was caught by a red man, whose 
ancestors may have been kings or chiefs while the white 
man's were European peasants. Back he came running 
with the ball to form the basement of a pile of 10 strug- 
gling fighters, and the game was on. You must get 
someone else to describe the game. I do not understand 
it well enough. The two groups of players lined up 
against each other, and one side tried to batter the other 
down, or send a man through with the ball. Again and 
again came this fierce shock, and a strange and unex- 
pected thing was happening. The Indians had no band 
of singers or cheer leaders, no pretty girls were urging 
them on, no pride of superior dominating race, but 
silently and resolutely they were smashing the white 
men back. It was hard. These boys in green died well. 
There was one light man who took the ball and ran 
through the Indians as his ancestors may have run the 
gauntlet, but they pulled him down. Inch by inch the 
white men were battered back over the line. The air 
seemed full of red blankets, for those substitutes at the 
side lines were back into the centuries coming home 
from a season on the warpath. Yet the green singers 
yelled on and shouted their defiance. Then the white men 
made a great rally and forced the Indians back, grimly 



THE INDIANS WON 211 

battling over the other line. At the end of the first 
half the score stood 10 to 7, in favor of the white men. 
" It's all over/' said a man who sat next to me. " They 
will come back and trample all over the Indians, for 
white men always have the endurance." A man nearby 
with a touch of bronze in his skin glared at us with a 
look in his eyes that was not quite good to see. Back 
came the players, at it again. There was great tram- 
pling, but of the unexpected kind. These slouching and 
shambling Indians suddenly turned into human tigers, 
and the plain truth is that they both outwitted and 
walked right over the green-clad whites. There was no 
stopping them. All the cheering and singing and senti- 
ment and " race superiority " went for nothing. For 
here was where pride and a haughty spirit ran up 
against destruction, and great was the fall thereof. Yet 
I was proud of the way these white boys met their fate. 
They had been too confident, and had lost what is called 
the " psychological drop " on the enemy. The Indians 
had them at the stake with a hot fire burning, for no one 
knows what a victory right there would have meant for 
the good old college far away among the hills. Yet, 
face to face with fate, cruel, silent and relentless, those 
boys never faltered, but fought on. I liked them better 
in defeat than in their airy confidence before the game. 
When it was all over they got up out of the mud of de- 
feat and gave their college war cry. There may have 
been a few cracked and corner-clipped notes in it, but 
it was fine spirit and good losing. Nearby the Indians 
waved their blankets and gave another college yell. And 
the 1,000 or more men with that burning drop of blood 



212 HOPE FARM NOTES 

in their veins went home with shining faces and gleam- 
ing eyes, with better dreams for the future of their race. 
For they had made the white man's burden of su- 
periority a hard burden to carry. 

My football days are over. No use for me to tell 
what great things I did 30 years ago. This age de- 
mands a " show me," and I cannot give it. If I had 
my way I would introduce football, baseball, basket- 
ball, pushball and all other clean and organized games 
into every country town. I would organize leagues and 
contests and get country children to play. Do you ever 
stop to think that work, long and continuous, for our- 
selves and our children, has not taught us how to or- 
ganize or use our forces together as we should? It is 
true. Organized play will do more to bring our chil- 
dren together for co-operative work than anything I can 
think of. It will, give discipline, which is what we 
need. Two of these green-clad boys stood an Indian 
on his head and whirled him around like a top. It 
was part of the game. He got up good-naturedly and 
took his place in the line. Imagine what his grand- 
father would have done! One white boy was running 
with the ball and two Indians butted him, while another 
got him by the legs. The boy simply held on to the ball. 
It was discipline and training in self-control. Step on 
a city man's foot in a crowded car and he would want to 
fight. Our country people need such discipline and 
spirit before they can compete with organized business. 
If I could have my way I would have our country chil- 
dren drilled in just such loyalty to the home town or dis- 
trict as these college boys displayed on the field. Tell 



THE INDIANS WON 213 

me, if you will, how it can be gained now in any way 
except through organized and loyal play for our chil- 
dren. You know very well what I mean. Work is 
an essential of life, and it must be made the founda- 
tion of character. Organized and clean play is another 
essential, as I see it now, and I think its development 
and firm direction is to be one of the greatest forces in 
building up life in the country. 



IKE SAWYEK'S HOTEL 

It was last year, as I recall it, at about this season, one 
of the children asked me a strange question : 

" What was the thanlcfnillest day you ever saw ? " 
]STow I have seen somewhere around 20,000 days 
come and go, and every one of them has brought a dozen 
things to be thankful for. I sometimes think as the 
hands crawl around the clock at Hope Farm that the 
day they are recording right now is about the best of all. 
I have passed Thanksgiving Day in the mud, in the 
snow, in a swamp, on a mountain, in a crowded city, 
on a lonely farm — under about all the conditions you 
can mention. I have given hearty thanks over baked 
beans, salt pork, bread and cheese, turkey and all the 
rest, but before the fire tonight somehow they all burn 
away except that experience in Ike Sawyer's Hotel. 

They were stuck in the mud — with a broken axle — 
in a swamp in Northern Michigan. No one had 
dreamed of an auto in those days. You forded the 
swamp and stream in the primitive old way. It was 
a rich, middle-aged lumberman and his young wife. 
How this tough, hard pine knot of a man ever selected 
this soft-handed and selfish girl I cannot see. She had 
come with him into the woods on one of his business 
trips, and the silence by day and the whispering of 
the pines at night had filled her with terror. The 
rough, sturdy man suddenly saw that, unlike his first 

214 



L 



IKE SAWYER'S HOTEL 215 

wife, this girl was not a helper and a partner, but a 
toy — a hothouse flower who could not live his life or 
help fight his battles. He had a great business deal on 
hand which required all his energies, but this girl could 
not understand or help him. She had begged and cried 
to go back to " civilization," and they were on their way. 
And in this lonely place the axle of the carriage had 
snapped and left them in the mud. 

It had been one of those gray, melancholy days 
which seem to fit best into the idea of a New England 
Thanksgiving. ISTow twilight was coming on and there 
were dark shadows in the swamp. The woman had 
climbed out of the mud and stood on a log by the road- 
side. She had been crying in her disappointment, for 
she had expected to reach the railroad that night, and 
spend Thanksgiving in the distant city — far from this 
lonely wilderness. Her husband was bargaining with 
an old farmer who finally agreed to haul the broken 
carriage back to the blacksmith shop for repairs. 

" I've got entertainment for beast," he said, " but 
not for man — so I can't put you up. Quarter of a mile 
down the road Ike Sawyer runs a sorter hotel." 

He hauled the carriage out of the mud and started 
back along the road. There was nothing for us to do 
but hunt for the hotel. You may have seen some strong, 
capable man come to a crisis in his life where it sud- 
denly flashes upon him that the woman of his choice is 
after all made of common clay, with little of that spirit 
or courage which we somehow think should belong to 
the thoroughbred. It was a very doleful, unhappy little 
woman and a sad and silent big man who walked 



216 HOPE FARM NOTES 

through the mud and up the little sand hill in search 
of the hotel. They had nothing to be thankful for, and 
yet did they but know it, they were to find the most 
precious thing in life in this lonely wilderness. 

Around a turn in the road we came in sight of a 
long, rambling building, weatherbeaten and out of re- 
pair. Over the door was a faded sign, " Farmers' 
Best." On the little porch just under this sign sat a 
white-haired woman in a wheel-chair. In front of the 
house a little man with a bald head and a pair of great 
spectacles perched at the end of his nose was chasing a 
big Plymouth Eock rooster about the yard. The old 
people had not noticed us, and we stopped in the road to 
watch them. The old man finally cornered the rooster 
by the garden fence and carried him flapping and 
squawking to the old lady. She examined him care- 
fully, and evidently approved the choice, for the old 
man, still holding the rooster, pushed the wheel-chair 
into the house and then, picking up his ax, started for 
the chopping block just as we turned in from the road. 
We startled him so that he dropped the rooster. The 
gray bird did not stop to welcome us,, but darted off 
into the shadows. He mounted the roost in the hen- 
house from which the old man easily pulled him a little 
later. 

You may have seen old pictures of country hotel- 
keepers bowing and scraping as their guests arrive. Ike 
Sawyer could not play the part. He just peered at us 
over his spectacles and rubbed his hands together. 

" Walk right in," he said. " Me and Annie can put 
you up." Then he led the way into the rambling old 



IKE SAWYER'S HOTEL 217 

house. It was dark now, and the old man lighted a 
lamp so that we could look about us. The old woman 
did not rise from her chair, but she smiled up a wel- 
come. 

" Ain't walked for 10 years," explained her husband. 
" I play feet and she plays hands, and between us we 
make out fine." 

The old man bustled about and started a fire in the 
big fireplace. The young woman had entered the poor 
old building with an angry snarl of discontent on her 
face. It was all so mean and hateful to be obliged to 
stay in this lonely, dreadful place. As the fire blazed 
up and filled the room with warm light, I noticed that 
the snarl faded out and she sat watching the old lady 
with wondering eyes. She went to her room for a mo- 
ment, but soon came back to sit by the fire and watch 
the sweet-faced old lady " play hands." On the other 
side of the fireplace, silent and strong, her husband sat 
watching his wife with eyes half closed under his 
thick, bushy eyebrows. 

I have seen the cook in a quick lunch counter stand 
in his little box and toss food together, and I have seen 
a chef earning nearly as much as the President daintily 
working in his great kitchen, but nothing will ever seem 
to equal the way that meal was prepared when Annie 
played hands and Ike played feet. Ike pushed a little 
table up in front of his wife, and at her call brought 
flour and milk and all that she needed for making bis- 
cuits. He stood beside her chair as the thin fingers did 
their work. Now and then he laid his hand upon her 
shoulder, and once he touched her beautiful head. As 



218 HOPE FARM NOTES 

though forgetting her guests Annie would smile back at 
him — a beautiful smile which brought a strange look to 
the face of the young woman who sat watching them. 
At first it seemed like an amused sneer. Then there 
came a puzzled, curious look — the first faint glimmer- 
ing of the thought that this old man and woman 
out of their trouble, out of their loneliness, had found 
and preserved that most precious of all earth's bless- 
ings — love! 

When a fellow has eaten more than 60,000 meals, as 
I have in my time, it must be a very good performance 
in that line to stand out like a bump or a peg in mem- 
ory. Through all my days I can never forget that 
supper in the fire-lighted room where Ike played feet 
and Annie played hands and brains. Ike started a roar- 
ing fire in the kitchen stove. Then he brought in a 
basket of potatoes and Annie selected the best ones for 
baking. He came with a fragrant brown ham, and cut 
slices, under her eye, she measuring with her thin finger 
to make sure they were not too thick. She cut the bread 
herself, selected the eggs for frying, mixed the gravy 
and seemed to know by the sputter in the pan when the 
ham was done. Ike pushed her chair over to the table 
so she could spread the cloth and arrange the service. 
Then at a word he pushed her chair to the window 
where half a dozen plants were blooming. She cut two 
little nosegays and put them beside the plates of her 
guests. Ike brought in the ham and eggs, the great, 
mealy baked potatoes, the brown biscuits and the apple 
pie. In her city home a servant would have approached 
the lady and gently announced : 



IKE SAWYER'S HOTEL 219 

" Dinner is served ! " 

Ike Sawyer, when Annie nodded approval, simply 
invited : 

" Sithycmdmt!" 

It was all so simple and human that it seemed a per- 
fectly natural thing to do when the discontented and 
peevish young woman picked up the little nosegay at 
her husband's plate and pinned it on his coat. She even 
patted his shoulder just as Ike had done with Annie. 
We were all ready to begin, when Ike, standing by 
Anniejs chair, took off his great spectacles and held up 
his hand. 

" I don't know who you be or whether you're church 
folks or not, but me an' Annie always makes every 
day a season for Thanksgivin'." 

Then in the deep silence with only the popping of the 
fire and the dim noises of the night, as accompaniment, 
the old man bowed his head and made his prayer. He 
prayed that the " stranger within our gates " might find 
peace and strength and go on his way thankful for all 
the blessings of life. Under those great bushy eye- 
brows the eyes of the strong, rich man glowed with a 
strange light. The young wife glanced at him, and the 
sneer faded away from her face. Then Ike became the 
landlord once more and he bustled about, tempting us to 
eat a little more of this or another piece of that, and 
at every word of praise falling back upon his stock ex- 
planation : 

" It's her — Annie plays hands and I play feet 
Everybody knows hands have more skill than 
feet." 



220 HOPE FARM NOTES 

After supper the big man and his wife stood at the 
window looking out into the wet, dismal night. After 
a little hesitation he put his arm gently around her. 
She did not throw it away as she did when he tried to 
comfort her in the swamp, but rather pulled it closer. 
After Ike had cleared up his dishes and caught and 
dressed the gray rooster we all sat before the fire and 
talked. With a few shrewd questions the lumberman 
drew out Ike's story. Years before he and Annie had 
owned a good farm in New York. There they heard 
of the wonderful new town that was to be built in 
Northern Michigan. A city was to arise there, the rail- 
road was coming, and fortune was to float on golden 
wings over the favored place. It is strange how people 
like Ike and Annie cannot see how much they need 
home and old friends and old scenes to make life satis- 
fying. They are not made of the stuff used in building 
pioneers, but they cannot realize it and they listen to 
plausible dreams and go chasing after the impossible. 
So Ike and Annie sold the farm and came to start the 
great city. It never started. The railroad headed 20 
miles west. Out among the scrub oaks you could find 
some of the rotting stakes marked " Broadway," " Clay 
St.," or " Lake Avenue." The swamp and forest re- 
fused to be civilized. Ike built his hotel in anticipation 
of the human wave which would wash prosperity his 
way. It never came, and only a rough, rambling house 
remained as the weatherbeaten gravestone of Sawdust 
City. Of all the pioneers there were only Ike and 
Annie — last of them all — celebrating their happy 
Thanksgiving ! 



IEE SAWYER'S HOTEL 221 

" Why don't you sell out and move to some town ? " 
said the practical lumberman. 

" Well, sir — it would be too far from home ! Me 
and Annie know this place — every corner of it. Every 
crick of a timber at night brings a memory. We are 
just part of the place. And the little girl is buried off 
there by the brook. We couldn't go away from that, 
could we ? " 

" But isn't it so awful lonesome ? " 

It was the young woman who asked, and it was Annie 
who softly answered her. 

" ISTo, for we have great company. I have Ike and 
he has me. All these long years have tried us out. We 
know each other, and we are satisfied. Each Thanks- 
giving finds us happier than before, because we know 
that our last years are to be our best years." 

The rich man looked over to Ike and Annie with 
something of hopeless envy printed on his face. His 
wife nodded her head gently and then sat gazing into 
the fire until Ike gave us clearly to understand that 10 
o'clock was the hour for retiring at the " Farmers' 
Rest." 

We stayed for our Thanksgiving dinner, and the gray 
rooster, stuffed with chestnuts and bread-crumbs, might 
well have stood up in the platter to crow at the praises 
heaped upon him. The forenoon was gloomy and dull, 
but just as we came to the table the sun broke through 
the clouds. A long splinter of sunshine broke through 
the window — falling upon Annie's snow-white hair. 
Ike hurried to move her chair out of the sun, but the 
rich man asked Ike to leave her there, for I think some- 



222 HOPE FARM NOTES 

thing in that sunny picture took him back to childhood — - 
where most men go on Thanksgiving Day. 

And shortly after dinner the farmer came up the 
road with the carriage. The axle had been mended and 
the horses rested. We all shook hands with Ike and 
Annie. I was to go my way and the other guests were 
to pass out of our little world. 

Annie held the young girl's hand for a moment. 

" My dear, I hope you will soon be back in the city 
among your friends, where you will not be so lonely. 
It must be hard for you here." 

The girl hesitated a moment and then put her hand 
on her husband's shoulder. 

■f John, would it mean very much to you if we went 
right back to the camp so you could finish your busi- 
ness?" 

" Yes, it would — but I am afraid " 

" Then we will not go home yet, but we will go back 
until you are through. I have had a beautiful Thanks- 
giving. I would rather stay in the woods." 

And so they turned in their tracks and went back 
through the swamp. The night before she said she 
should always hate the place where the accident had 
made Ike Sawyer's hotel a necessity. JSTow as she passed 
it she smiled and gave her husband a pinch — a trick 
she must have learned from Annie. And so they went 
on through the sunny afternoon of the " thankfullest day 
of their lives." They were thinking of the working 
force at the " Farmers' Eest " — the feet and the hands ! 

And the thought in their minds framed itself over 
and over into words : 



IKE SAWYER'S HOTEL 223 

" Out of their poverty, out of their trouble and loneli- 
ness, this man and woman have found each other, and 
thus have found the most beautiful and precious thing 
in life — love!" 



OLD-TIME POLITICS 

" What is the matter with this political campaign ? " 
An old man who can remember public events far 
back of the Civil War and beyond asked that question 
the other day. He said this campaign reminded him 
more of a Sunday school convention. Nobody was 
fighting, and very few such epithets as " liar " or 
" thief " or " rascal " were being used. In these days 
no one seems to care who is to be elected. We are all 
too busy trying to pay our bills. The old man bewailed 
the loss of power and interest in this generation. He 
thought this quiet indifference meant that as a nation 
we have lost our political vigor. Having been through 
some of those old-time battles, I cannot fully agree with 
him. It is true that few people seem interested, yet they 
will vote this year, and I think the quiet and thoughtful 
study most of them are making will prove as effective as 
the big noise and excitement we used to have. We are 
merely doing things differently now. Whether the great 
excitement of those old political days made us better 
citizens is a question which has long puzzled me. I 
know that in those nervous and high-strung days we 
did many foolish things as a part of " politics." On 
the other hand, I wish sometimes that our people could 
"Jet as thoroughly worked up over the tribute we are 
paying to the profiteers as we did in those old days over 
the tariff and the slavery issue. 

I can well remember taking part in the campaign be- 
224 



OLD-TIME POLITICS 225 

tween Garfield and Hancock. The Democrats felt that 
they had heen robbed of the Presidency in '76, but as 
they failed to renominate Tilden the Republicans called 
them quitters. I had dropped out of college for awhile 
to work as hired man for a farmer in a Western State, 
and we certainly had a great time. This farmer was 
an old soldier; he was a good talker and thought well 
of his own exploits. When you found that combination 
40 years ago you struck a red-hot partisan. The man's 
wife was a Democrat, because her father had been. 
She was one of those small, black-eyed women who ac- 
quire the habit of dominating things in the school- 
room and then concentrate the habit when they take 
a school of one pupil in the home. Her brother lived on 
the next farm. He had turned Eepublican because he 
wanted to be elected county clerk. It was fully worth 
the price of admission to sit by the fire some stormy 
night and hear this woman put those two Republicans 
on the broiler of her tongue. They were big men, fully 
capable of holding their own in any ordinary argu- 
ment, but this small woman cowed them as she formerly 
did her ABC pupils. It was enough to make any 
young man very thoughtful about marrying a successful 
teacher to see this small woman point a finger at her 
big husband and say: 

" Now John Crandall, don't you dare to say it isn't 
the truth ! " 

And John didn't dare, though from his political reli- 
gion it might be a base fabrication. One day, after a 
particularly hard thrust, John and I were digging pota- 
toes, and he unburdened his mind a little: 



226 HOPE FARM NOTES 

"I'll tell you one thing: any man who marries a 
good school-marm takes his life in his hands — his politi- 
cal life, anyway ! " and he pushed his fork into the 
ground as though he was spearing a Democrat ! " And 
yet," he added, as he threw out a fine hill of 
potatoes, " sometimes I kinder think it's worth the 
risk." 

My great regret is that this lady did not live to cele- 
brate the Nineteenth Amendment ! With the ballot in 
her hand she would have stirred excitement even into 
this dull campaign ! 

We worked all day, and went around arguing most 
of the night during that hot campaign. The names we 
had for the Democrats would not bear repeating here. 
The other side went around with pieces of chalk, mak- 
ing the figures " 321 " on every fence and building or 
on stones. That represented the sum of money which 
General Garfield was said to have stolen. The Repub- 
licans marched around in processions carrying a pair of 
overalls tied to a pole, representing one of the Demo- 
cratic candidates. Oh, it was a " campaign of educa- 
tion " without doubt ! And then Maine voted ! John 
and his brother-in-law had been playing Maine as their 
trump card. 

" Wait till you hear from the old Pine Tree State. 
As Maine goes, so goes the Union ! " 

John felt so sure of it that even his wife was a little 
fearful. The day after the Maine election John and I 
were seeding wheat on a hill back from the road. There 
were no telephones in those days, and news traveled 
slowly — we were eight miles from town. In the late 



OLD-TIME POLITICS 227 

afternoon we heard a noise from the distant road. 
There was Peleg Leonard driving his old white horse 
up the road at full speed and roaring out an old cam- 
paign song: 

" Wait for the wagon ! Wait for the wagon ! 

Democratic wagon, and we'll all take a ride ! " 

The demand for prohibition in those days was con- 
fined to a few " wild-eyed fanatics/' and Peleg was not 
one of them, especially on those rare occasions when the 
Democrats got a chance to yell. We saw him stop in 
front of the house and wave his arms as he told the news 
to Sarah. 

" Looks sorter bad. Can it be that Maine has gone 
back on us ? " said John as he saw the celebrator go on 
his way. 

We usually had a cold supper on such days, but now 
we saw the smoke pouring from the kitchen chimney, 
and the horn blew half an hour earlier than usual. John 
and I put up the horses, washed our faces at the pump 
and walked into the kitchen as only two dejected Ke- 
publicans can travel. You see, it wasn't so bad for the 
Democrats. They were used to being defeated, and 
had made no great claims. I was young then, and 
youth is intensely partisan. Since that day I have voted 
on four different party tickets, and glory in the fact that 
I am not " hide-bound." 

Sarah had on her best black silk and the white apron 
with lace edges. She had cooked some hot biscuit and 
dished up some of her famous plum preserve and actu- 
ally skimmed a pan of milk to serve thick cream. 



228 HOPE FARM NOTES 

"Maine is gone Democratic! " she cried. "Hurrah 
for Hancock! Bread and water's good enough for Re- 
publicans in this hour of triumph, but I know the fat of 
the land will taste like gall to both of you. Sit right 
down and feast, because the country's safe ! " 

Physically that supper was perfect. There never 
were finer hot biscuits or better plum preserve or finer 
cold chicken ! Spiritually it was the saddest and most 
depressing meal on record. We made a full meal. I 
can go back into the years and see that big farmer gnaw- 
ing half a chicken under command of his wife. You 
remember " King Robert of Sicily " in Longfellow's 
poem: 

" The world he loved so much 
Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch." 

And so with poor John. That fine chicken tasted 
exactly like crow as Sarah sat by and " rubbed it in." 
Oh, politics, where are the charms we formerly saw in 
thy face? 

John and I surely dawdled over our chores that night. 
We had no great desire to go in and hear the news. 
Finally Sarah came to the door and called us. 

" Say," said John to me as we started for the house, 
" you go to college. Have you ever studied logic or 
what they call psychology ? " 

" While I am no expert at either subject, I know 
what they mean." 

" Well, now, suppose your wife got after you like 
that, how would you use those studies to keep her quiet % 
What's the use of an education if it don't help you 
keep peace in the family ? " 



OLD-TIME POLITICS 229 

So I unwisely told John that he ought to tell his wife 
that a woman by law obtained her citizenship from her 
husband. That citizenship was the essence of politics; 
therefore the wife should by law belong to her husband's 
party. I am older now in years, and I know better than 
to give any man arguments in a debate with his wife. 
The Maine election, however, had made us desperate. 
So John marched in with a very confident step and 
elaborated my arguments. He was quite impressive 
when he assured her that the law declared that a woman 
acquired her political principles from her husband. It 
did not work, however. 

" Don't you tell me ! I didn't marry any principles 
at all when I married you. How is a man going to give 
any principles to his wife when he never had any to 
give ? My father was a Democrat, and I take my poli- 
tics from him. He was the best man that ever lived, 
and you know it. I inherit my politics, I do — I didn't 
marry them ! " 

The truth is that Sarah's father was an old war Demo- 
crat who came near being tarred and feathered by his 
neighbors, but one of the saving graces of modern civili- 
zation is the fact that a woman's father is always an 
immortal — never needing any defense — his virtues be- 
ing self-evident, while her husband is a de-mortal who 
can hardly hope to become a good citizen except through 
x long years of patient service! His only hope lies in 
the future when he has a daughter of his own. 

And Henry Wilkins, Sarah's brother, was running for 
county clerk. We held a caucus at the blacksmith shop, 
where John and I and two farmers were elected dele- 



230 HOPE FARM NOTES 

gates to the county convention. We all went to the 
county seat one Saturday afternoon to nominate a ticket. 
The last we heard from Sarah was : 

" Now, Henry, if you get nominated on that rene- 
gade ticket, I know one man that won't vote for you 
and that's John Crandall. I won't let him vote if he 
has to stay in bed all day ! " 

Contrary to what some of the " antis " say woman 
has always exercised political power. 

When we got to town we found the " drug-store 
ring" in control. This was a little group of poli- 
ticians led by Jacob Spaulding. It was the " Tammany 
Hall " of Oak County. This ring had decided to nomi- 
nate an undertaker from the west side of the county for 
clerk. Most of the farmers were all ready to quit when 
Jake Spaulding said the word, for he usually handed out 
the little political jobs. I was young and inexperi- 
enced in politics and ready for a fight. It hurt me to 
see that great crowd of farmers ready to give up the 
fight when a big, fat brute like Jake Spaulding and a 
few of his creatures shook their heads. So I called our 
delegates together and proposed that we go right in 
where Jake was and " talk turkey " to him. Strange, 
but John Crandall was the only outspoken supporter 
I had. John was bossed at home until he was like a 
lamb, but get him out among men and the pent-up 
feelings in the lamb expanded that innocent animal into 
a lion. So we had our way, and about 25 of us marched 
down the street to the courthouse, where in the sheriff's 
room the county committee was making up the ticket. 

You would have thought the destinies of the nation 



OLD-TIME POLITICS 231 

were at stake as we filed into that room. Half of our 
delegates were ready to quit when Jake Spaulding 
glared at us over his spectacles. 

"What do you want?" 

Dr. Walker was our spokesman, and Jake Spauld- 
ing had a mortgage on his house. You could see that 
mortgage peeking out from behind every sentence of the 
doctor's speech. In effect he asked those politicians if 
they wouldn't please nominate Henry Wilkins for 
county clerk. It didn't take Jake long to put us where 
we belonged. 

" Eo ; the delegates to this convention are going to 
nominate Hiram Green. Nothing doing here. Just 
fall in and work for the grand old Republican party ! 
And now, boys, good day; we're busy." 

Several of our delegates started for the door. They 
were well-disciplined soldiers. I was not, and I did 
what most of them thought a very foolish thing. Before 
I well knew it I was up in front making a speech to 
Jake Spaulding. At that time no one had ever heard 
of the 35-cent dollar. The word " profiteer " was not 
in the language; but I think I did make it clear that 
these farmers were there to nominate Henry Wilkins or 
" bust " the convention. As I look back upon it now I 
think it was the most bold and palpable " bluff " ever 
attempted at a country convention. And John Crandall 
stood beside me and pounded his big hands together 
until the rest of the delegates forgot their fear and 
joined in. When I finished there was nothing to do for 
us but to file out of the courthouse. 

Then they turned on me in sorrow and anger. Every- 



232 HOPE FARM NOTES 

one would now be a marked man. They never could get 
any office from Jake Spaulding. Even Henry, the can- 
didate, felt I had injured his chances, for if he kept 
quiet perhaps he might make a deal to get to be deputy 
clerk. But John Crandall stood by me. 

" Good," he said ; " I'm a fighter. Get right up in 
convention and give 'em another. I'm going to vote for 
Henry till the last man is out." 

But these faint hearts did not know what was going 
on inside the sheriff's room. When our delegation 
marched out the county committee sat and looked at 
each other. 

" Boys," said Jake Spaulding, " it looks like they 
mean business. We can't let that spread. I guess we'll 
have to take Henry on ! " 

There was a big crowd in the courthouse, and the 
convention went off like a well-oiled machine. They 
nominated sheriff and probate judge and then the chair- 
man asked: 

" Any nominations for county clerk ? " 

I had my throat all cleared and stood up with: 
"Mr. Chairman," — but no one paid much attention 
to me. The chairman turned to the platform and 
said : 

" I recognize Judge Spaulding," and there was the 
big, fat boss on his feet. 

" Mr. Chairman," he said, " today our glorious coun- 
try lives or dies ! The grand old Republican party is on 
trial. Every patriot is needed in this great crisis. Ho ! 
Israel, every man to his tent! I therefore take great 
pleasure in nominating that splendid farmer, that in- 



OLD-TIME POLITICS 233 

comparable patriot, that popular citizen, Henry Wilkins 
of Adams township. I ask you in the name of our 
glorious citizenship to put him through with bells 
on!" 

I stood there all through the speech too dazed to sit, 
until John Crandall pulled me down. Then I realized 
that for once a bluff had worked. And after the conven- 
tion I met Jake Spaulding in front of the courthouse. 
" Young feller," he said, " if you decide to settle down 
in this county, let me know. I'll have a little job for 
you." 

We all rode home in the candidate's wagon. Sarah 
was waiting for us at the gate. 

" Well, how did you come out ? " 

"Nominated by acclamation," said Henry. "John 
and the young feller here did it. They made Jake 
Spaulding come up ! " 

"John?" 

If some actress could put into a single word the 
scorn and surprise which Sarah packed into her hus- 
band's name her fortune would be made. And John 
and I stood there like a couple of truant schoolboys 
waiting for the verdict. 

" That's what I said. John was fine. Only for 
him I'd have been defeated." And Henry drove on. 

" Now you two lazy Eepublicans, get out and milk 
those cows." 

We went, but when we got back the kitchen stove 
was roaring, and Sarah was just taking out a pan of 
biscuits. There were ham and eggs on the stove. 

" Now you sit right down and eat. If I've got to 



234 HOPE FARM NOTES 

be sister to a county clerk I want to know all about it. 
Now, John, you tell me just how it happened." 

Ah, but those were the happy days of politics. Do 
you wonder that we old-timers consider the present 
campaign about like dishwater — in more ways than one % 



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